csarras Ge eae ry ee a 7 > ae eeUniversity of Vir P77 T45 F 1898 Ha fairy grandmother : or, Madg ry iii 5 ao g | Iba Reet ims Pry AT AY FAM aT TRA ne AIR PI CNA ge LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIAsal gn teat eee eee PEA FAIRY GRANDMOTHER1 i i 1 Fi ee iy { i j i \. ‘ f FA ee RR Ee ED1 + Lh ‘ b i ) i ; : t H { } t ' i Every syllable reached Mrs Ridd’s ears. A new expression was on her face as she listened. PAGE 128. Grand.—/ront.A Fairy Grandmother OR MADGE RIDD, a Little London Waif BY L. E. TIDDEMAN Author of ‘A Humble Heroine,’ ¢te. LONDON: 38 Soho Square, W. W. & R. CHAMBERS, LIMITED EDINBURGH: 339 High Streeterate eee geet area eras te eae enaener deciaadage acess anna ee ans CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE | ¢ A GREAT RESOLUTION London alley, a girl of ten years of age sat Zime- huddled up, on a sultry afternoon in the G4 ah month of July. The clothes she wore were 4 but a mass of fluttering rags; her feet were YF” bare; so were her shoulders, for they peeped through her torn frock, and showed themselves all bony and soiled. Her face was grimed with dirt; tears had traced white channels down her cheeks; her shaggy black hair hid her wide forehead. From beneath her thick eyebrows peered two big brown, shining eyes, whose dark lashes were heavy with moisture. The child was not weeping for any fancied trouble, as children are so apt to do; she was crying for physical pain, and trembling with terror. She had been cruelly ill-used by the woman who should have been tenderest to her—her own mother. And yet she had done no wrong. She had returned empty-handed after begging for many hours, andA GREAT RESOLUTION. one would have thought that a hungry child was sufficiently punished if left without food. But Mrs Ridd was quite of another opinion; so her blows had been cruel and heavy, and Madge crouched there trembling, a bruised and broken thing who grew desperate in her misery. She rocked herself backwards and forwards, as though she thought that this would ease her pain, and tried to choke back her tears, when she heard the sound of approaching footsteps, though she knew that they were not her mother’s. A rough-looking woman advanced and touched her on the shoulder. This was Mrs Simpson, the landlady, the only person who ever spoke a kind word to Madge. ‘Well,’ said she, ‘there ain’t any use in crying, anyways. ‘No, said Madge, rising to her feet, ‘more there ain't.’ She spoke in an old-fashioned way, and with an accent which it is not possible to reproduce. ‘I thought as your mother was going to kill you this time, said Mrs Simpson; ‘she don’t seem to know what she’s doing when she’s mad with drink, and she mostly is mad with drink now. I can’t rightly say that she’s ever sober. She’ll get worse and worse as she goes on.’ The child shuddered as she listened to these words. ‘Don’t folks ever get better when once they have taken to drink ?’ she asked. ‘Well, said Mrs Simpson, considering the matter, ‘I don’t think they do. It’s very seldom, any way. There was once a man in the court where I livedA GREAT RESOLUTION. Zz before I came here who swore off. He kept straight for nearly three months, and there was another as was cured for life. But these folks wanted to cure themselves; your mother don’t. You won't get her to swear off, so she will go from bad to worse. She ’ll kill you before she has done with it. Here, take and eat this, my girl; you are pretty near starving, I reckon.’ Madge seized the slice of bread offered her, and ate it ravenously. She was little for her age, and very thin. Her way of eating was wolfish in the extreme; this was not surprising, for she had fasted for nearly twenty-four hours. She did not say, ‘Thank you;’ it was not the fashion in Angel Court; but when she had swallowed the last crumb she drew a little nearer to Mrs Simpson, and said in a softer voice than was usual with her: ‘You’ve been right-down good to me, you have. I wish you was my mother. I wish I had a mother as didn’t drink. Are you quite sure as she wont never get no better? Quite sure and certain ?’ ‘Yes, said Mrs Simpson slowly, ‘I’m quite sure and certain. "Cos, you see, she don’t want to get no better, not she! She told me last night as she meant to spend every penny she got on drink. She swore that she was never happy when she was sober.’ Madge did not answer for a while; she was evidently pondering deeply. ‘I won't never touch a drop of drink, not if I lives to be a hundred. I hates the sight of 1t, and the smell of it. I believe it’s poison!’ she exclaimed.A GREAT RESOLUTION. ‘Well, your mother ain’t likely to offer you any, she’s too fond of it herself, said the landlady ; ‘so you haven't got no need to worry yourself.’ Madge still stood staring at her from out her heavy eyes; she shifted uneasily from one foot to another, looking awkward and embarrassed. Sud- denly she threw herself upon Mrs Simpson’s neck, and hugged her in a wild, rapturous manner that was almost alarming. Kissing was a thing well- nigh unknown in Angel Court. ‘Lor’, what’s come to the girl?’ said Mrs Simpson, shaking her off, though not unkindly. ‘You’ve been real good to me, said the child, returning to her old theme. ‘Well, I ain’t got time for kissing and hugging, any way, said Mrs Simpson; ‘I’ve got my work to do.’ She turned away hurriedly. Madge looked after her retreating figure. There was a soft light in her eyes, a glow of colour on her cheek. She was a very affectionate child, and she lived where affection was not fashionable, but for all that she had not been able to repress it on this occasion. ‘Nobody else ever was good to me,’ she said. ‘Why, it was Mrs Simpson as gave me that there bead necklace as mother tried to pawn, and couldn't, cos they wouldn’t give her nothing for it.’ The recollection of this seemed to give her fresh animation. She found her way to a wretched room underground, and darted straight to the fireplace, looking around her as though about to do some evil deed. For fear makes cowards of us all. Yet she did but seek her own property, grovelling onA GREAT RESOLUTION. the floor, and dragging the highly-prized bead neck- lace from its hiding-place beneath the fender. It was red and blue, and most children would have looked upon it as a hideous ornament. Not so Madge. She clasped it round her throat with a sigh of delight, then paused and let her glance roam over the cellar-like apartment in which a portion of her young life had been passed. This was Madge’s measure for home. This was all she knew of comfort. The room served for kitchen, drawing-room, dining-room, and bedroom. A bundle of straw lay in either corner; on these Mrs Ridd and her only child slumbered as best they could. The air was painfully close ; the dirty window had not been open for many a long day; the sole ventilation was from a broken pane into which old rags were stuffed. ‘I’d rather sleep out-of-doors, any night in the week, said Madge. ‘It’s colder, but it ain’t so choky.’ Yet her expression was sad as she made a circuit of the room, touched a few odd articles on the mantelpiece, a broken chair, the worn and oreasy table, and last of all the cracked plate from which she had eaten on the rare occasions when the food was of a nature to make the luxury of a plate necessary. Her actions were those of a person who bade farewell to her home. Only Madge did not know what the word ‘home’ meant. She held the plate in her hand. ‘IT don’t suppose I shall ever eat off you again,’ she said. Then she took her hat from the peg, and went out into the court.10 A GREAT RESOLUTION. ‘You ain’t seen my mother anywhere about, have you?’ she asked of a shock-headed, red-haired boy. ‘Bless you, no; but I know where she is, My father saw her round at the “Rose and Crown.” She’s carrying on awful.’ ‘I didn’t ask you what she was a-doing. I asked you where she was.’ Madge turned out of the court, to the left, away from the ‘Rose and Crown, and walked on rapidly. She did not pause till she reached a particularly crowded corner. Then she began to ply her trade. Over and over again her cry rang out: ‘Please, give me a penny; for the love of mercy, give me a penny, dear lady! I ain't seen a crust of bread or tasted food to-day. I’m starving hungry. My father is a-dying, and mother can't go out to earn. A penny, lady; only a penny!’ Her tone was very plaintive; more than once a passer-by paused, attracted by it, and dropped a coin into her hand. Once a lady, who had not appeared to notice, turned back and addressed her. She was a little lady, with gray curls and gold-rimmed spectacles. ‘Are you sure that what you say is true?’ she said. This was a direct question. It was difficult to answer. The falsehood she had repeated over and over again in her sing-song tones had appeared quite easy. It had not cost her an effort. This was different. Not that it occurred to Madge that it was wrong to tell a lie; no one had ever put such an idea into her head. Therefore she could not haveA GREAT RESOLUTION. 11 explained why she felt uncomfortable. But she did feel uncomfortable; there was no mistake about it. And the cause, as far as she knew, lay in the expres- sion of the lady’s eyes, which were very trustful and gentle, though she was old, like the eyes of a little child. Madge had to force out her reply. ‘Of course it’s true, she muttered sullenly. ‘Father, he’s got the consumption, and mother’s a-nursing of him night and day. Her mother had taught her to say this; it was a lesson she had learnt in a hard school, that had been impressed upon her by many a savage blow. ‘Do you love your mother?’ asked the lady, Madge had not been instructed on this point; she was at a loss how to reply. This being the case, she kept a rigid silence. The kind old lady with the gray curls shook her head doubtfully; she had learnt by experience that tales told by beggars in the street are not always true. But yet she could not resist the pathos of Madge’s tear-stained cheeks and great despairing eyes. There was a bruise, too, on the child’s bare shoulder. She touched it with gentle, sympathetic fingers. The touch gave Madge courage to plead once more. ‘Please, give me a penny, dear lady,’ she cried; ‘for the love of God, give me a penny !’ The lady dropped a silver sixpence into her out- stretched palm and moved onwards, only to reappear a moment later. | ‘Promise me you will spend that money on food, said she.ee rR PEN SR epee tomer A GREAT RESOLUTION. ‘Lor’ bless you, ma’am, of course I wilh. Eta hungry as hungry. This time the tone was perfectly genuine; you could not doubt it. The lady left, satisfied. By ten o’clock at night Madge had a shilling, all told, clutched tightly in her hand. The gaslight gleamed on her pale face. She walked steadily on- wards, always farther from her home. At last, after looking furtively over her shoulder many times, she entered a shop and bought herself a penny loaf. Then she walked on again, though her bare feet were blistered, munching busily. Presently she caught sight of a crowd of persons, young and old, who were jeering and hooting as they hurried along. She paused, wondering what was the cause of their excitement, and saw a red- faced, drunken woman, who was using horrible language, as she rolled from side to side. The child’s face turned suddenly as white as marble. It was her mother. Why was she thus far from Angel Court? Was she on her track ? Madge shrank into a doorway and hid herself, to emerge again a few moments later when all was safe. A covered cart stood outside a public-house. Madge observed that the driver had abandoned it. It seemed to contain nothing but some baskets and a few empty sacks. She crept in at the very back, lay down, and threw a sack over herself. Thus con- cealed, she waited. Presently the driver came out; he was in good spirits, his face a little flushed from the effect of the liquor he had swallowed. He cracked his whip, called cheerily to his horses, and drove off. Madge heaved a sigh of relief. The manA GREAT RESOLUTION. 13 would be angry when he found her, but he would not strike her as her mother would if she returned to Angel Court; she was not afraid of that. Nor would he take her back to her wretched home, for nothing should induce her to tell him where it was. The horse’s speed increased; he went faster and faster. Madge’s fluttering heart beat more evenly. What did the clattering hoofs on the hard roadway seem to say? ‘She won't catch you! She won't catch you!’ Yes, that was it! She recalled her mother’s cruelty; she felt her smarting back and shoulders; she pushed her hair from her bruised forehead, and stroked it gently with her thin fingers. ‘No; I won’t go back, she said. ‘NotI! I won't never go back. I’d die sooner!’ She peered through a hole in the canvas, and saw the summer sky, all bright with stars. How pretty they were! How gently the moon shone down upon the houses! Madge wondered what held the moon in the sky, who made it, and why the stars did not drop. Their twinkling puzzled her, and she thought a good deal as she lay still and unobserved. The horse’s pace was even. Presently Madge fell asleep. She was very weary.| Lip tee Pint iat tee 4 +h th \ i - OF i \ CHAPTER TI. A RAGGED TRAVELLER. . a WAN 2 “HEN she awoke the stars still shone, the aCe ) moon still bathed the earth with soft, MWC cool light, and a church clock struck twelve. The cart was no longer in motion; it was because it had ceased to jog along that she had roused from her slumber, like an infant no longer rocked by its mother. Her limbs were stiff from being kept so long in one position; she stretched herself, lifted the sack cautiously, and, peering out, found that the driver had drawn up in front of a neat little house, and was rapping on the street-door with his knuckles. She could see him quite distinctly. He was not by any means sober. A light burned in the parlour window; it was removed, and a woman came to the door, holding a lamp in her hand. It illumined a pale, sharp-featured face. Its owner burst out in bitter reproaches. She called her husband by many harsh names. They were all deserved no doubt, but they only served to enrage him. He dealt her a fierce blow as he entered; a woman’s shriek and a child’s cry of terror disturbed the stillness of the summer air. int >A RAGGED TRAVELLER. 15 Madge took her resolution suddenly; a few moments ago she had been planning to throw herself on the mercy of the driver of the cart, to tell him truthfully just how she had acted, and her reasons. She had changed her mind now; he was one of the drinking sort. She had had enough of that kind of thing. That was what she was running away from. She slipped out at the back of the cart as quickly as she could, took to her heels, and ran swiftly along the deserted street, on and on until she found herself in the main road. Then she stood still, panting for breath, a lonely child in a strange place. The lights of London town lay far behind her; she realised this, though she had no idea where she was. She was very solitary, very hungry, but there was a great sense of relief upon her. She stretched out her thin arms, then folded them on her breast; the moonlight made her pale face look paler than ever. ‘Mother ain’t here, anyways,’ she cried, with a smile on her face. It was a smile of joy; the fear that had haunted her for so long past, the dread of cruel words and crueller blows, had left her. She was quite calm; she could plan and think. She walked on slowly, looking from right to left, anxious that no one should observe her, least of all a policeman. For policemen, as she knew to her cost, were terribly inquisitive. They always wanted to know what a person was doing; they were quite incapable of leaving you to yourself. Madge hated policemen. She saw none; this quiet place, ten miles out of London, was apparently so respectable that no blue-coated guardian of the peace was needed.“5 PITS eee ae i aN NE nt - ” ” - - Se eee 16 A RAGGED TRAVELLER. ‘Folks go to bed early here,’ Madge said to her- self. ‘I wonder how they earns their livings.’ She came to a lighted building, that was the rail- way station, she knew ; and she was about to cross the road suddenly, for fear of attracting attention, when she caught sight of something lying on the eround. It only looked like a piece of paper, but, for some reason or other best known to herself, Madge took it into her head to pick it up. She looked about her timidly; no one was near. Then she took her treasure to the nearest gas-lamp and inspected it. It was an unused railway ticket. Madge could read; she spelt out the inscription slowly. It was a third-class return ticket taken from a place called Hitcham to another place called Whiteferry, and available for a fortnight. Where Hitcham was, and where Whiteferry was, Madge had no idea. This, however, did not greatly disconcert her. ‘It’s the country, I expect, she said to herself; ‘perhaps it’s a long way off. So much the better ; that ll be farther from mother.’ She spoke quite earnestly and simply ; she did not know, poor child, what the word mother means to most children—how the mere utterance of it calls forth sweet memories of gentle words, loving kisses, tender caresses, and a patience that never tires. She did not suspect that, at that very moment, mothers were bending over their little ones, or breathing prayers for them as they slept the sleep of innocence. All this would have been strange talk to her. Her one idea was to get away from the woman who ill-used her, and she elutched the ticket tightly, the smile broadening on her face.A RAGGED TRAVELLER. Ly Tt changed into a positive laugh when she found out, as she did a moment later, that the station she had just passed was Hitcham Station. ‘That will suit me first rate, said she. ‘The fust train as leaves that there station for Whiteferry takes me along, as sure as my name’s Madge, I wish I wasn’t so hungry, though; it’s a lone time before the shops will open. I guess I'll get some- thing to eat as soon as they do. I feel ag though there was rats gnawing away inside of me If I could get a sleep it wouldn’t be go bad. T’ll try.’ She looked around, puzzled where to go, and walked on again. By-and-by she came to the rough remains of what had once been a field. Some digging had been going on there, and there was a shallow sort of gravel-pit, into which she crept. Here she stretched herself at full length, and lying on her back, gazed upwards. The heavens were clear and star-bespangled. ‘I don’t rightly remember ever having seen so much sky before, said the child. And indeed she had not; for all her life had been spent in a crowded London court. She looked and looked, wondering why she felt so strangely quiet and sub- dued. It was almost as though a gentle hand had been laid upon her. She thought of the lady whose fingers had touched her bruised shoulder, the lady who had given her sixpence; and when she fell asleep there was a smile on her lips. She no longer looked like a hunted animal; she slumbered as peace- fully as any happy child in her warm, soft bed. And indeed there was no cold breeze to blow upon her; fortunately for Madge, it was an extremely hot B18 A RAGGED TRAVELLER. night. She dreamt an odd sort of dream, only part of which she could remember when she woke. She was seated at a great table, laden with good things to eat and drink—shiny hams such as she had seen at the cook-shops, fried potatoes, plum-puddings, roast meat—all that the heart or the appetite could desire. And as she rubbed her eyes she cried: ‘It’s a shame, it is, there ain’t no shiny ’ams for this here child. No fear !’ But when all vestiges of sleep had passed away, she remembered that she had elevenpence tied up in the ragged hem of her petticoat, and rejoiced greatly. She had no idea how long she had slept; perhaps she would find a shop open already. She jumped up, shook herself like a dog, and started off once more. She was not afraid now. She was equal to any policeman in the broad daylight; and the spirit of adventure was upon her. By nature Madge was cheerful; if she had been happily placed she would probably have been as merry as a lark. As it was, she laughed whenever she had a chance; only her chances had hitherto been very small. She took the one that now offered. To be quite alone, and desolate, and un- protected in a strange place would seem a sorry fate. Madge did not think so. She had had a long rest; she was going to buy food; it was hours since she had been struck or abused. So she whistled as she strode along, and her white teeth gleamed. She looked a disreputable-looking little object, but about this she did not concern herself in the least. She was not accustomed to tidy hair, clean hands,A RAGGED TRAVELLER. 19 vy and the like; this would have appeared to her to account for a great deal of wasted time. There were not very many shops open as yet in Hitcham ; wander- ing on, Madge soon ascertained this fact. Nor were there many persons abroad. Presently, however, she espied a solitary policeman. He was yawning as he strolled along, and he quickened his pace when he saw Madge. Hitcham did not produce many such ragged specimens, He halted in front of her. ‘Where in the name of goodness did you spring from ?’ he asked, Madge smiled. ‘I rises early,’ said she, ‘when the cock crows. Cock-a-doodle-do !’ She imitated the sound so well that he started back. ‘You could mistake me for an old rooster, couldn’t you now ?’ she queried. ‘That ’s neither here nor there. The question is, Where have you come from, and where are you going to?’ ‘I’ve come from London,’ said Madge promptly ; ‘and I’m a-going to Whiteferry as soon as I’ve had my breakfast.’ ‘A likely story that. Why, Whiteferry is sixty miles away.’ ‘Who said it wasn’t? I ain’t going to walk it. I ain't going on a bicycle neither. I’m a little short of money just now, and I can’t afford to buy one. A train is good enough for me, till I comes into my fortune.’ ‘Who is going to pay for your ticket 2’ The policeman stayed to parley with her, partly because her quick, pert ways amtised him, partly” Se : 3 . a arc oh rata tet ee ‘meu ota Se a a ‘ % Ss a ra ToC memae are aie ne STE ATTA a po mtaorsronee ES : aa a: : he 5 — : - = yi = eee gee : i EGR RAF PARTE a alae RR eh IS ri saa 3 ~ cmap et de A RAGGED TRAVELLER. because he was curious about her. His question did not put Madge out. ‘The ticket’s took, said she. ‘My grandmother paid for it herself. She said it was worth the money, seeing as she was so fond of me, and wanted me to stay with her awful bad.’ The big policeman looked incredulous. ‘Show me that ticket of yours,’ said he, ‘if you happen to have it about you.’ Madge ducked, untied a wisp in the hem of her petticoat with a flourish, pulled out the ticket, and exhibited it, in the palm of her hand, with a silver sixpence and fivepennyworth of coppers. ‘This here is to buy my breakfast, and refresh- ments for to eat on the road, said she. ‘When I gets to my grandmother’s there ll be rare larks, she a-kissing me, and me a-kissing her. You had ought to be there to see.’ ‘You don’t belong to Hitcham,’ said the policeman ; ‘you needn’t tell me that. I wouldn't believe you if you did.’ ‘T ain’t a-going to tell you no such lies, I comes from London, I does. I told you so afore.’ ‘How did you get here? It is too far to walk.’ ‘I drove. A friend of mine has a eart, and he gave me a lift. He knowed as how I was a-dying to see my grannie.’ : Madge smiled again, so good-humouredly that the policeman smiled also. He pointed to the left, with a jerk of the thumb. ‘There’s an old woman that keeps a milk-shop yonder, said he. ‘You don’t look as though you had had anything to eat for a long while. JustA RAGGED TRAVELLER. 21 you go in; she will give you a cheap meal; she’s a good sort. But mind you don’t play her any pranks,’ | ‘I don’t want to play no pranks. I don’t want to do nothing but eat, said Madge. Her eyes looked very big and dark and eager. ‘I ain’t going to spend all my money at once neither,’ she added. ‘You said it was a goodish journey to Whiteferry, didn’t you ? How long will it be in the train ?’ ‘wo hours or more.’ : Madge threw back her head and laughed. ‘ Well,’ said she, ‘I reckon I can go without eating for two hours. I’ve done it before now. I don’t think I'll need to take sandwiches with me in the train. ‘Cos, you see’— her eyes twinkled mischievously — ‘my grannie she dines late, of course.’ ‘Get along with you, you and your grannie,’ said the policeman, laughing also. ‘I don’t believe one single word about her. I wasn’t born yesterday.’ _ ‘No, said Madge reflectively ; ‘you don’t look like it neither.’ With this parting remark she left him. He turned and watched her little figure. Her ragged skirt flut- tered in the breeze; her rough hair was stirred by it, and fell over her forehead. The policeman determined to keep his eye on her; he did not approve of such disreputable characters making their appearance in Hitcham; he doubted greatly whether she was really going to Whiteferry. If she did, well and good; that was no concern of his! If she remained in Hitcham, however, it would be his duty to find out everything about her. Inthe mean- while he wondered whether she would go where heos popes I Sk = a ee A RAGGED TRAVELLER. had sent her for her breakfast. As likely as not she would not. He waited. Madge stopped at the place he had indicated, hesi- tated for a moment, and entered the shop. A little old woman stood behind the counter. Her cleanliness astonished Madge. She wore a neat white cap, tied under her chin, and edged by a spotless muslin frill ; her cheeks were the colour of a russet-apple, her brown eyes sharp and bead-like. Her lilac cotton gown looked as though it had only that moment come out of the wash-tub. There was no dirt on her small hands; they were as well kept as a lady’s. She was much surprised at the sight of her customer, but Madge did not leave her long in suspense. ‘That there bobby with the carroty whiskers told me as how you'd give me a nice cheap breakfast, she remarked politely. ‘I can pay, yer know, but I ain't not to say wealthy, and I’ve got a big appetite ; _so I ’opes you won't be too hard on me.’ The little old woman stared at her; her eyes grew less and less sharp in their expression. ‘Bless your heart, poor lamb,’ said she, ‘ you seem to be pretty nigh starving.’ Madge’s glance roamed round the shop; she could see two or three loaves of bread, crisp, crusty cot- tage-loaves. Her mouth began to water. ‘IT believe I could eat the lot, she said; ‘and as for drinking, well, I dunno as I shouldn’t have lapped up the water in the puddles as I came along if there had been any to lap up.’ ‘Poor lamb!’ said the old woman again; ‘come along with me.’A RAGGED TRAVELLER. 23 She led the way into a nice little room at the back of the shop. It was as neat as a new pin; there was a gay-coloured paper on the walls, the mantel- piece held many smart ornaments, and in the fire- place was a large pot of nasturtiums. ‘Well, I never!’ said Madge approvingly. ‘Ain't you smart in here, and no mistake!’ ‘Sit down, my dear, said Mis Bowser kindly, ‘and I will give you something to eat directly. She pointed to a chair, covered with clean chintz. Madge inspected it. ‘Tt ain’t fit for the likes of me, said she; ‘it really ain’t. My clothes is dirty; they'd just spoil it.’ She looked round, and saw a small wooden bench against the wall. This she drew to the table, and seated herself demurely, watching the proceedings of her hostess with great interest. Mrs Bowser bustled about, disappeared and reappeared, bringing bread and butter with her, and sweet-milk. ‘These she set before her guest. Then she sat down opposite, and watched her eat. Madge was ravenous; she could hardly satisfy her hunger, plentiful as was the fare placed before her, and as she fed a tint of colour tinged her pale cheeks. ‘Is it good ?’ asked Mrs Bowser. | ‘Rather! It’s prime! I ain’t had such a feed as this, not since Christmas. Then the Ragged School lady, she gave us a treat, she did. Didn’t we stuft! | There was cake and bread and butter, and I drank eight cups of tea. I thought I shouldn’t ever be able to crawl home. But I managed to somehow. ‘Where is your home 2’Dar a ee = 9A, A RAGGED TRAVELLER. Madge shut her mouth firmly. ‘That ain’t any business of yourn, she said sharply. Gentle Mrs Bowser stared at her in amazement. She had never been addressed so rudely before. Madge had no wish to insult her, however. This was the sort of conversation she was used to. Be- sides, if she told the truth, it was likely that the old woman would tell her to go back to her mother, or even let them know in Angel Court where they would be likely to find her. This would be too terrible. Yet, as the child gazed at her entertainer’s face, she became aware of a change in it. Mrs Bowser looked grieved; she had grieved her. And Mrs Bowser was wonderfully kind; Madge’s warm heart went out to her. She was quick-witted, and it never entered into her head for a moment that it was wrong to tell an untruth, so she said boldly: ‘Bless your heart, you needn’t to look like that. It was only a bit of my fun. I'll tell you where I lives ina minute. I lives at Islington, I does, with a aunt. And I’m a-going to Whiteferry to see my grannie. I’m a orphan, you see.’ ‘But why didn’t you go straight from London ?’ Madge looked puzzled. ‘Lor’ bless you,’ she said, ‘IT don’t know. My aunt, she said as I was to come this way. I didn’t ask her why. A friend of ours guy me a lift in his cart, and I comed along. I , shouldn't wonder as my aunt wanted for me to.get a drive. ~It was a rare treat, I can tell yer,’ , Mrs Bowser looked more puzzled than ever. She asked no more questions; she had a shrewd ideaA RAGGED TRAVELLER. 25 that she was not being told the truth. This dis- tressed her; she was determined not to tempt the child to further falsehood. “Well, she said cheerfully, ‘I suppose you like the idea of going to Whiteferry. It is a very beauti- ful place, I hear.’ ‘I can’t say nothing about that, said the child promptly ; ‘my grandmother only moved there lately. I ain't visited her at Whiteferry before; but she’s a good old sort, is Grannie,’ Mrs Bowser looked hard at her, and met the gaze of a pair of bold black eyes. They were drooped suddenly ; they could not look into the keen brown ones. Madge coloured crimson; she did not know why. She felt very uncomfortable, without suspect- ing the reason. ‘If folks don’t want to be told lies, they shouldn’t ask so many questions, she argued with herself. She had eaten her fill by now, and was very satisfied. There did not seem to be any excuse to remain longer. She laid her money on the table, looked at it, and said, ‘How much?’ in an anxious way. Mrs Bowser smiled. ‘T shan’t charge you anything, she said slowly. ‘You are such a poor little, ragged thing! I’m not a vich woman, but you are welcome to what you have had; and I'll pack up a few slices of bread and butter for you to take along with you besides.’ ‘Do you mean that I ain’t got to pay nothing ?’ ‘T mean that you are welcome to what you have had.’ ‘Well, I never! You are a rare, good old woman!’ ejaculated Madge. She gazed wistfully at the littleSo a aa es Ser nas a BES pap Se ~ - 26 A RAGGED TRAVELLER. russet-apple face so near to her own. She would have liked to kiss it, but had not the courage. ‘I wish you was my mother!’ she cried suddenly. ‘I wish as I could live along of you, in this here house always.’ Mrs Bowser did not echo the wish; she wondered what she would do with this strange little specimen of humanity in her quiet, orderly home. ‘I suppose, she said, her eyes looking brighter and keener than ever, ‘that you wouldn’t rather be here than with your grannie, as she is such a nice old woman ?’ Madge’s eyes gleamed; she knew that she was suspected, and was equal to the occasion. For a moment her face looked monkey-like in its slyness. ‘My grannie is a good enough sort, but she ain't better nor you,’ she said. ‘You’re a stunner, and no mistake! I’ve had a rare good feed, and thank you kindly.’ She was so pleased with her own politeness that she wondered what the folks in Angel Court would say if they heard her, and almost wished that they could, She knew she ought to go, and shifted un- easily from one foot to the other as she waited. Meanwhile Mrs Bowser packed three thick slices of bread and butter in a piece of paper, and handed the parcel to her. ‘God bless you, my dear!’ said she. Madge flushed again, and said, she hardly knew why: “'T ain't all gospel truth as I’ve been a-telling of.’ There was no reply; the little old woman still surveyed her pitifully.A RAGGED TRAVELLER. a ‘’Taint all gospel truth as I’ve been a-telling of, Madge repeated; ‘but you hadn’t ought to have asked so many questions.’ She turned abruptly and fled. Mrs Bowser watched her with eyes that were somewhat moist. She was making straight for the station, and she paused on her way to speak to the policeman. “Your train goes in ten minutes, said he; ‘you ‘ll lose it if you don’t hurry up.’ Madge nodded. ‘I ain’t going to lose it, I can tell yer, she cried. ‘My grannie would be in a orful way if she was to go to the station to meet me and I wasn't there. Lor’ bless your heart, there would be a fine set out. Good-bye, bobby.’ She turned into the station, grinning at him over her shoulder. ‘Which platform for Whiteferry?’ she asked of a porter. He gave her the required information. A few moments later the train whirled along, carrying with it the ten-year-old child. The faster it went the more she rejoiced, for the picture she saw so con- stantly with her mind’s eye grew fainter. She no longer trembled. When she closed her eyes, she still thought that her mother pursued her, with reddened face, dishevelled hair, and angry out- stretched hand. But she was not afraid. ‘She can’t catch me! Nobody can’t catch me now!’ she eried. ‘I’m a-running away from the lot of ’em. I’m getting farther and farther every minute. I’m a-going to Whiteferry.’ She sat alone in a third-class compartment; therene pe bommstae py RE rn TE RT I Ee RAI TI SAE pg ERIE “RIE et RO Opp ee LS Re AR GTR a ba an ne ee et Lp PTL LTS ie PE 28 A RAGGED TRAVELLER. was no one to listen to her words. Presently she extended her arms with a gesture of infinite longing. ‘I wish I had a real grannie,’ she said ; ‘a grannie like Mrs Bowser, with little brown cheeks; a nice, clean grannie, as would give me bread and butter and milk. I wish’ She did not finish the sentence. Quite suddenly and unexpectedly, to her own great astonishment, she burst into tears. She could not have explained her reasons for this outburst; she only knew that she felt immeasurably lonely, that she longed, for just one moment, even for Angel Court, for anything rather than solitude. She cried aloud, bidding the train stop; a panic was upon her. But on they went, and before the junction was reached Madge had recovered herself, and was munching her bread and butter. The tears had washed some of the dirt from her cheeks; that was all the difference any stranger would have seen in her. There were a few moments stoppage at the junction. She could have got out if she had liked, and walked up and down the platform, as some of the other passengers did. But she had no inclination to do anything of the kind. She was trying, in her childish way, to make plans for the future, calculating how long she could keep starva- tion off on the large sum of elevenpence. ‘T ain’t afraid of work,’ she said to herself; ‘I’m as strong as a horse. I wonder if there’s any one in Whiteferry as would like to have her stones cleaned or her knives ground. Or I could sweep a crossing, come to that, if I’d got a broom.’CHAPTER 118 GRANNIE. HERE is not a prettier place in all England : “; than Whiteferry, nor a more retired one. ee the sea, lying in avalley. The hills around SG it are covered with verdure, and there are BA fair corn-fields wherein the wheat grows in golden splendour. There are also shady ae and trees that meet overhead, their branches interlacing. Then there are the woods, of which Whiteferry folk are very proud. Some say they are most beautiful in the spring-time, when the green of the young leaves is tender; others are in favour of the luxuriant summer foliage; a third party declares for autumn, when there is a carpet of crisp brown leaves beneath your feet, strewn with fragrant fir-cones; a fourth clamours for winter. And, indeed, on a December day the Whiteferry woods are a picture. The myriad trees stretch out their bare branches, and King Frost scatters jewels over them all, so that they sparkle and gleam; the icicles hang, shining with prismatic colours; the ground is beautified by a covering of fresh, untrodden snow. It is as though some fairyea ne Ce Ee err othe a eT Pe ee Se fe Acie Spa BTS Oe rere rs SEDER Oe Speman S ame 30 GRANNIE, had waved her hand and altered the face of Nature. Then comes a change in the temperature. Our fairy waves her hand again; out comes the sun, warms the earth with his smile, and melts the frost-gems ruthlessly. The white branches turn black, the snow counterpane is whipped off, and the air blows soft in our faces. Ha, ha, King Frost, you are bold and daring! But you cannot withstand the hot breath of the sun. His strength is too much for you. But who is thinking of winter now? It is July, the time for fragrant roses, for flowering hedgerows, for blue skies and caressing breezes. The London train steams into the station with a snort and a puff Madge Ridd thrusts her unkempt head out of the window; her curious eyes take in every detail. ‘Lor’ bless me,’ she ejaculates, ‘what a lot of grass! Ain't it pretty! And those big white chalk letters. That ’s neat, I’m sure. Well, I never!’ The big white chalk letters are traced on the embankment, and spell Whiteferry. Madge alights, and looks around her. The wonderful cleanliness of everything causes her eyes to widen. There is a sweet scent in the air that doesnot escape her. ‘It’s a deal nicer than the patchouli Sal Dent's young man gave her, she observes. ‘That made me kind of sick. This here perfume don’t.’ The porter, a young fellow with sandy whiskers, and a face burnt scarlet by the sunshine, stares at Madge. Madge stares back at him. He is a bashful young man, used to Whiteferry ways, which do notGRANNIE. ol allow of such behaviour, and his eyes drop beneath the bold gaze of this little London waif. Nevertheless he musters courage to say, as he takes her ticket: ‘Youre a stranger hereabouts—where are you a-going of ?’ Madge’s great dark eyes dilate. She looks like some hunted animal. And again she seeks the old refuge of falsehood, the resource of the weak. ‘I’m a-going to see my old grannie, young man, says she, ‘if it is all the same to you. Now you know all about it; but it ain’t any business of yours, and so I tell you.’ She passes on with her head in the air. He does not know, as he marvels at her impertinence, that her heart is beating fast for very fear. Once she glances back at him. He is still staring. Madge thrusts out her tongue. This has always been the fashion in Angel Court. It never occurs to her that it is an impolite one; but she fancies by the porter’s astonished expression that it must be unusual in Whiteferry. She wanders down the village street, and is hardly able to restrain her laughter. It seems to her so very odd. ‘The shops—oh, what shops! How small and insignificant they look after those she has seen in London! One tradesman is content to display his goods in a parlour window ; the butcher has flowering geraniums on his marble counter; the shoemaker’s porch is covered with honeysuckle. | It is all very odd, quaint, and unusual, and the new sights amuse Madge amazingly, and claim her entire attention. However, she is not more in-a ent a apn nee a ac Sie B GRANNIE. terested in Whiteferry folks than Whiteferry folks are in her. The women come to their doors and stare at her, the children nudge one another, and the shoemaker addresses her from his window. ‘Who may you be, my dear?’ he questions ; ‘ and where are you going ?’ Silence. He repeats his question. Madge no longer looks amused, but startled. The shoemaker has an earnest face. He has the air of a man who expects to be answered. Madge has no mind to speak the truth, and she is weary of falsehood. She calls out in reply to him, but he does not catch her words. He merely marvels at her fleet-footed- ness. He would marvel more if he could follow her with his eyes as she speeds along like some hunted animal. She is haunted by the fear that she may be caught and led back to Angel Court. The picture of it rises before her eyes, and shuts out the sweet country sights and scenes. The old familiar odours fill her nostrils instead of the fragrant air she is breathing. ‘No, no!’ she cries passionately. ‘I won't tell nobody where I come from, not I! I'd die sooner than go back. What do folks want a-questioning of me? Why can’t they mind their own business ? And still she speeds on, in dirt and rags, that are a blot upon the landscape, not troubled by either, with one thought only in her mind. ‘They shant catch me, any way, she murmurs. There is a new scent in the air now, a something indescribable; it is the scent of the salt sea. But Madge does not know it. If she did she would be none the wiser, for the sea means nothing to her.GRANNIE. It is just an empty word, a something she has heard about—no more. Suddenly she finds herself on the cliff’s edge. The ocean lies below her. It stretches out vast and blue, and breaks on the shore in little, white-erested waves. Here and there a small white-sailed yacht is visible, or a rowing-boat; there is a glimmer of sunshine on dripping oars, and perhaps a sound of light-hearted laughter from some cheery fisherman or pleasure-seeker, It is all peaceful—so peaceful, so quiet, that the little gutter-child feels hushed and awed. She sinks down on the turf, with her elbows softly pillowed, and her chin in her hands. The thoughts that come to her could hardly be put into words, It is all very beautiful. She remembers that a child in Angel Court wag once taken to the seaside for a day. It was a school treat. That child had a good deal to say. She told of swings, and roundabouts, and cocoa-nut shies. But she never said a word about anything like this, She never spoke of a great expanse of shining water, of fair blue skies, of yellow corn-fields, of luxuriant flowers, of scented breezes. And what was all the rest besides these? A mere nothing, not worthy to be mentioned. Madge dreamed though she was awake, and the late afternoon merged into evening. The sun set; it was a gorgeous sight—a blaze of gold and crimson, then a pale pink afterglow; last of all a dreary grayness, and a sense of chilliness and discomfort. Madge uprose, and stood on the cliff, a solitary little figure, ragged, desolate, uncared for. She was possessed by a bitter sense of loneliness, Ga gets 34 GRANNIE. It was a new and terrible sensation. She had not experienced it before. She turned first to the right, then to the left. Where should she go? She had told the falsehood about her grannie so often that she almost believed it to be true. Oh! if she only had one, a grannie like Mrs Bowser, with a kind smile on her face; a grannie who would hold out wel- coming arms, who would offer her food and drink, and something she craved for, though she could not give it a name— that something which we call ‘love!’ She had been very warm throughout the summer day ; now she was seized with a strange fit of shiver- ing; her teeth chattered. She folded her arms and tried to hold herself still, but it was of no use. She moved on as fast as she could, hoping to get warm. Suddenly the blood coursed through her veins; her head felt as though it had swollen to twice its size. She was dizzy, and could hardly stand. But Madge was no coward. Directly the sensa- tion passed she moved on again. She knew not where to go, or what shelter she would find. But she dared not remain here in the gathering dark- ness; she must needs return to the village, if she could find her way back there; it would be some comfort to feel that she was near other human beings, to see lights gleaming in the windows, to hear the sound of voices. The splash of the waves upon the shingles was. unspeakably dreary. She put her fingers in her ears and tried to shut it out. Her limbs were stiffened; it was impossible to walk quickly. She hobbled along, footsore and weary. When she found herself between hedge-GRANNIE. 35 rows she trembled for fear. Yet she could not have told what she dreaded. The moon had risen; the trees cast odd fantastic shadows on the ground. She shrank from these, and. shuddered at the strange sound of chirping grasshoppers. All her sensations were odd and new. Besides, she was so very, very cold. She was as cold as she had been last winter, when the poor suffered so terribly. She tried to finish the bread and butter Mrs Bowser had given her, but could not. Madge had never known her appetite to fail like this before. She could not understand it. But she did not throw her crust away; she understood the meaning of hunger too well for that. She realised also that she would be likely to need it later on. At last she reached the village street. Once more her breath came more freely. She did not feel go alone, friendless as she was. Here folks lived. They were all strange to her, to be sure. No matter! They were at least not so strange as the sea and the waving trees. The few shops were closed; the blinds and curtains of the dwelling-houses were drawn. These dwelling-houses were not by any means all of the same size. Wee houses were placed side by side with larger ones. The doctor’s stately residence, with its shining brassplate, had a humble homestead on its right; the tailor lived a stone- throw’s distance from the lawyer. The big houses did not attract Madge; they were outside her consideration. She was, however, fasci- nated by a little cottage with red curtains. They were but half drawn. Madge crept to the window and peered through. She saw a comfortable kitchena — ———eoe — < oe 5 ae I a ee Ct er laa te eB * a commen Sot hina Rone REE OTE MS ec ee ee beaten rere oer eee ee he en ee ee ee 3 ‘Y 36 GRANNIE.. with a well-stocked dresser. A cheery fire burnt in the grate, the table was laid for supper, and a labourer and his wife sat there with their children, a boy and a girl, both rosy-faced and smiling. The boy had reddish hair and twinkling eyes; he was evidently of a cheerful disposition. Madge guessed him to be about her own age. She watched him with a kind of fascination as he took big mouthfuls of bread and meat, pausing now and then, with a choice morsel stuck on his two-pronged fork, to crack a joke. Whether it was a good or a bad one Madge could not say, for the words did not reach her; but the gay laughter rang in her ears, and, sad as she was, her mouth widened, until she joined in a specially hearty fit of merriment for sympathy’s sake, At this the girl, who was timid and delicate in appearance, cried out suddenly, and pointed to the window. ‘A face! a face!’ she exclaimed in her terror. ‘Nonsense, lass, said her father. ‘ And the boy walked to the window, threw it open, and peered out into the darkness. Nothing was to be seen save homely flowers, breathing a sweet perfume. Madge had fled. | A rough man lurched out of the public-house, and nearly fell upon her as he lumbered down the worn stone steps. He called to her. She flung him an answer back in her terror, an answer such as she had been used to give in Angel Court. The manner of it was new and strange to Whiteferry folks; the man’s companions were moved to curi- osity by it, and by the strange flying figure.GRANNIE. 37 One of them bade Madge halt. She only ran the swifter. He followed, giving her chase, out of mere idle curiosity, and quite unconscious and careless of the stifling dread that filled her childish heart. She was wild with fear. He would capture her; she felt convinced he would drag her back to her mother. Memories too sad to be written down, scenes too terrible to paint, rose before her eyes. “Never! never!’ she cried. ‘I would sooner drown myself,’ The man had ceased to pursue her, but she still sped on, slackening her pace now and then to recover her breath, and looking over her shoulder. What strange power was it that guided her steps? The sea seemed to be calling to her, ‘Come, child, come!’ as it splashed on the shore. Yet, in point of fact, she was too far away to hear it. She felt weak, dizzy, and inexpressibly weary. If only she could lie down and rest somewhere. A friendly portico would suffice; if she could creep into one unobserved. She could lie there, huddled up, and protected in some measure from the night air, until a policeman should move her on. She came suddenly upon a big house ; the street lamp in front of it shone upon its darkened windows. Evidently its tenants, who- ever they might be, had retired to rest. It was an imposing-looking residence. At the gateway were two large gilded lamps. Madge thought they must look very handsome when alight. She reflected also on the ways of rich folks. It appeared strange to her that they should go to bed so early when their days were so enjoyable. But she had heard thatae 38 GRANNIE. they slept in warm, soft beds, with feather pillows under their heads. Perhaps this accounted for their laziness. The house had a roomy portico. She crept up the carriage-drive and inspected it. Further- more, there was a large mat, a luxury which she had not anticipated. She dropped down upon it like some weary animal, and the matted hair that hung over her face might have been a mane instead of a covering for a human head. ‘I’m awful sleepy,’ whispered Madge, ‘and I don't know as ever I felt so queer before. Hold still, can't you, you stupid !’ She addressed herself, for she was shaking from head to foot; her teeth chattered; she forgot for the moment where she was. Suddenly she grew hot again, painfully hot; her mind wandered, and she fell into an unconsciousness that was not sleep. Now and then she spoke; a few disjomted words fell from her parched lips, and disturbed the stillness of the night. ‘All right, Grannie, she would whisper softly, and a moment later her thin bare arms were out- stretched as though to ward off some savage blow. But there was no one near to bless or curse. None thought of the desolate child; least of all her mother, for the demon drink had poisoned her heart; there was no love in it. Yet once she had been a bonny laughing lass, whom Stephen Ridd, an honest carpenter, had wooed and won. But, alas! this was long ago. When Stephen Ridd died, the neighbours said he was well out of his misery, and they wondered what would become of the child. But they never knew. The mother betook herselfGRANNIE. 39 to London, and was lost in the great human whirl- pool; and the child, who had been born in the country, struggled up as best she could in a London alley, and had no memory of green fields or waving trees. Yet, by a strange chance, she had returned to them, or if God’s hand led her she knew it not. The very name of God was strange to her. And moon and stars shone down upon a mere heap of rags, as indifferent to it as to the beauty of the slumbering flowers and unquiet sea.CHARTER. 1 ¥, ‘I DUNNO,’ ( OOD Mrs Dell was the richest lady in f— Whiteferry, and the most charitable. She had the warmest of hearts, but for all that she lived alone in the great house, into whose portico Madge Ridd had crept for shelter. For she was childless, and her granddaughter Eileen, who had been the very apple of her eye and her constant companion, had faded away, as her mother did before her, when but twelve years of age. Grief hardens some hearts ; it did not harden Mrs Dell’s. She was, if possible, more pitiful and gentle than ever. She was sixty- five years of age, but she looked older, because her hair was so white. But her eyes were clear as a iW young girl’s, and quite as gentle, and there was a ii pretty pink colour on her cheeks, i This colour heightened when the housemaid took i her out to inspect what looked like a heap of rags ' lying in her portico, and she bent over it with } tears gathering beneath her eyelids. The heap of Hi rags stirred, and as the housemaid touched Madge on al the shoulder the child lifted her head and showed a % \ Seite ahaa tienen ene oe ee Cn eT eka simian NEST BS ee lit a lag ag csi wD pa eagtt tan e—‘i DUNNO,’ 41 thin flushed face, while she stared at them from out a pair of dark, misty eyes, in a meaningless fashion. Then her head dropped again. They spoke to her. She did not answer, but lay there log-like, knowing nothing of her surroundings. “We'd better send for the police, hadn’t we, ma'am?’ asked the housemaid. ‘We had better send for the doctor first,’ said Mrs Dell, still with the tender moisture in her eyes. She gave her orders quietly but with decision. None dared gainsay them, though opinions were divided as to their wisdom. Madge was carried indoors and laid on such a bed as she had not dreamt of in her wildest imaginings. But she knew it not; she was all-unconscious of the many services rendered her; she stared wildly at the doctor; when she spoke her words were incoherent, and carried no meaning to her hearers. And though they talked at her bedside, she heeded them not. They had made many inquiries as to who the child was; the police had been set to investigate the matter, but as yet no clue had been found. ‘She will be able to tell us who she is when she recovers, they said to one another; and they waited patiently. Though for a while, indeed, there was little hope that she would get better. She lay between life and death, ministered to as she had never been ministered to before, and no one com- plained of the trouble she caused in the beautiful house. Once or twice some one was tempted to grumble, but Death is very solemn, and he was hovering over the child as she lay there in her help- lessness. Besides, women’s hearts are pitiful. So“re cee ee pS ee eR RENT Ch FS rea pe FRAT NE seamen Saas itera = a ata aoe oe ; = z Bae Saal joer icp ie nemo os 5 a a Ee ee : rs SSR ER BEING LORS F, > SpE Ee OS = fe Sa a pe Ri Ba Rg Ne pan 492 ‘I DUNNO.’ they tended Madge, and were glad when the doctor told them there were hopes of her life; and at last, when the crisis was over, the London wail opened conscious eyes upon a scene that was strange to her. She lay on a white bed, clad in a spotless night- dress; her hair was cut quite short; she was clean as she had never known herself before. The room was delicately papered ; moss-roses formed the pattern on the walls; there was a dressing-table draped with pink and white muslin, and a picture faced her, re- presenting Christ blessing little children. Madge’s eyes took in all these details; then her glance fell upon a figure at the foot of her bed. She saw an old lady with silvery hair, and a cap of deli- cate lace ornamented by bows of pale lilac satin. Her face was beautiful in the extreme, not only on account of regular features, but because of the expression that animated it. This expression was one which Madge had not seen on any countenance before. It had, though she knew it not, love in it, a yearning love that went out to the child upon the bed, the wasted invalid, who had been so nigh to the grave. The old lady wore a dress of some soit, gray material; there were rings on her hands and lace at her throat. She was knitting, and counted the stitches in a gentle undertone: ‘One, two, three, four, five, six. Then she raised her eyes, looked into Madge’s, and saw that the wander- ing mind had returned to its old beaten pathway. But she was not sure that it would stay there; and she greatly feared to send it back again, so she resumed her counting in rather a_ louder voice: ‘seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve,’‘I DUNNO,’ 5 Madge watched her for a while, asking herself where she was, and whether she was really Madge Ridd; and at last she spoke. It seemed to her that somehow, she knew not why or how, that which she had longed for so greatly had come to pass, Her mind was not yet quite clear; but she remem- bered her great desire, and for a moment she thought that it was fulfilled. With this conviction upon her, Madge breathed forth a single word. ‘Grannie!’ she said timidly; and then again, in a shrill, weak voice, that had no strength in it, though she strove to speak loudly: ‘Grannie !’ It was as though a spirit had called to Mrs Dell, the spirit of her one grandchild, the girl who lay buried in Whiteferry churchyard, and on whose quiet grave the roses bloomed and withered, giving place to autumn blossoms more hardy but less beautiful. She could not believe her ears. ‘What did you say, my dear?’ she asked; and rising, she advanced to the head of the bed and leant over Madge. ‘Grannie, said the child once more, stretching out her thin arms, ‘will you kiss me ?’ It was a bold request, made by a child recently sprung from a London court, to a fine lady, elegantly dressed, with jewels on her slim white fingers. But Madge was hardly conscious of its boldness. A great longing was upon her, a craving for the love to which she had been a stranger all her life. Her quivering lips, her trembling hands, told of her anxiety. It was allayed almost immediately. Mrs Dell kissed her very tenderly, and laid a cool hand onpacman! ooo aaa pS pone ale S aE ene PLE Nimes eat ied ap ane SE I a tn ere ee ne ee Die el eee : a a ee ae = ea Soe BPP aire poder wn he PE 44 ‘I DUNNO,’ her brow. ‘God bless you, my dear child!’ she said. Madge’s memory was awakened; it gave a sudden leap backwards. She had heard those very words before. Where and when? She lay and pondered. Then she recalled Mrs Bowser’s back- parlour at Hitcham; she had said ‘God bless you }’ also. What did they both mean ? Mrs Dell spoke again. ‘What is your name, my dear?’ she asked. ‘You have been ill here for a lon while, and we have been trying our hardest to find out all about you, but as yet we have not succeeded. You will be able to tell us now, though, I am sure. Can you remember how you came here ?’ For a few moments the child made no reply by word or gesture. Presently she said: ‘I crept up the gravel-path, and I went to sleep on—on a door-mat. I wasn’t doing no harm; I didn’t want for to steal nothing; I never stole nothing in all my born days, Paadn't,’ She spoke with great energy, and began to cry in a wild, passionate manner, moving her restless hands and throwing the bed-clothes off her, Her eyes looked unnaturally large, and burnt with a feverish light. ‘No, no, said Mrs Dell, ‘of course not, my poor little girl; no one suspects you of anything so dread- ful.’ She tried to soothe her, but in vain. Madge could not control herself; she laugh@d and wept hysterically. Mrs Dell, unwilling assshe was to rouse the nurse, who was sleeping, was obliged to go and fetch her. But it was long ere Madge lay back exhausted on her pillows, and allowed herself to be fed with beef-tea. When she had swallowed some of‘I DUNNO.’ 45 this she became more peaceful, and after a while the two watchers had the satisfaction of finding that she had fallen into a quiet slumber. They spoke softly at first, for fear of awakening her, but as time passed they resumed their habitual tone of voice, Nor did they notice when she breathed less regularly. Madge opened her eyes for a second only, closed them, and feigned to be still sleeping. It was a capital imitation. It was not by any means a first attempt, and practice makes us perfect, even in deception. With a cunningness taught her by the cruelty of others, Madge resolved to listen. It was Mrs Dell who spoke. ‘Directly the child can tell me who she is I must write to her mother, or whoever she has belonging to her, she said. ‘That will be my first duty,’ ‘Yes, said the nurse, ‘of course; but I have known cases similar to this child’s where the patient has never recovered her memory. What then? Suppose this poor little creature has forgot- ten all about herself, cannot supply you with her address or anything; that would be a very bad job, would it not? Whatever would you do, Mrs Dell 2’ There was a pause, during which Madge held her breath. ‘If that were the case, if she could not tell me to whom she belonged, or if I found that she had no mother or friends to claim her, I should keep her myself,” Mrs Dell said at last. ‘I should try and see what good food, a happy home, and kind treatment would do for her; whether she might not one day take the place of my lost grandchild, and be a com- fort to me in my old age. But what is the use ofSt aide ate eee ii Sansa hi illicit ek ee el ; Pe Baars 46 ‘I DUNNO.’ talking about it? It is only a foolish dream. Of course her mother will claim her. Of course she has a mother. Of course she will have to go back to her.’ ‘No, she won't, said Madge to herself ; ‘there ain’t any of course in it. Unless them interferin’ perlice finds out where I come from. I hates’em, with their sneakin’ ways. But they wont get nothin’ out of me, I can tell ’em. Nobody shan’t get anything out of me. Ill tell ’em hes, I will. That’s wot comes o’ axing questions. She muttered all this very low, her head well under the bed-clothes. ‘What is it, my dear ?’ asked Nurse kindly. ‘I’m awake, said Madge in a weak voice. ‘ Ain’t this just a pretty room! Who’s that man in the picture? He ain't going to hurt them children, I ‘opes. Tell me about ’em.’ Nurse was young, and had a sweet voice. She told of the Christ, and of His tenderness towards little children, in a simple way. Madge, ignorant as she was, could grasp much of what she said. She listened patiently. ‘Tell me again !’ she pleaded. Her request was at once fulfilled. ‘Have you never heard the story before?’ asked Mrs Dell. ‘No, never.’ ‘Did your mother never speak to you of God or Christ 2’ ‘I don’t remember nothing about no mother; I don’t remember nothing about nobody.’ ‘Had you a father ?’‘I DUNNO,’ ‘Lor’ bless you, no!’ ‘Where do you come from, dear child 2’ ‘I comes from your doorstep ; that’s all as I knows about it. Some one must have found me there; I dunno who. But I didn’t’ come in here myself. I shouldn’t have had the cheek,’ ‘My servants carried you in,’ ‘Werry good of ’em, I’m sure,’ She smiled like the Madge of old, the Madge who could see a joke even in the midst of sore distress. ‘What is your name?’ asked Mrs Dell. ‘Madge. Didn’t you see it marked on my linen, them nice clothes as must have been took off me when you put this on 2’ She pointed to her neat night-dress. Mrs Dell looked at Nurse with inquiring eyes. They did not understand the joke: they thought that Madge’s mind was wandering again, ‘What is your other name?’ asked Mrs Dell. ‘Ain’t got no other name.’ ‘Nonsense, dear child; every one has a second name.’ ‘I ain’t every one. I ain’t got no second name. I’m just Madge.’ Her kind friend made one more attempt. ‘Tell us where you live.’ ‘I dunno. I dunno nothink. Wot’s the good of asking a poor girl so many questions 2’ She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, and began to ery again. Just at that moment the doctor entered. For the first time since he had visited her his patient looked at him with a glancelp mt ly ap ae alg ali a a 48 ‘lI DUNNO.’ full of a keen intelligence. He was startled out of his usual professional calm. ‘Well, Inever! Who would have thought of this ? ’ he exclaimed. ‘Did you think I was a-going to die?’ asked Madge anxiously. He was a little gentleman, with rather a timid manner, and he was not at all used to being cross- examined. ‘Well, he replied, ‘I must admit that you have been very ill, my dear; very ill indeed.’ ‘There ain’t no mistake about that, responded Madge. ‘I was skinny enough before, but I’m a deal skinnier now. Look at this’ She bared the boniest of arms, and held it up to the light. ‘There ain’t nothing but skin on it, is there?’ she said. ‘But I ain’t a-going to be put under the ground just yet a while, for all that. No fear.’ ‘No, no” said the doctor ; ‘we hope not; we sin- cerely hope not. We trust that you will soon be well enough to return to your friends. We must lose no time in communicating with them. I sup- pose’—he turned to Mrs Dell as he spoke—‘that you have found out all about your guest ?’ ‘Indeed I have not; I cannot get any informa- tion. She does not appear able to recollect any- thing at all.’ ‘Dear me, how strange! To be sure, the brain has been seriously affected, but I should have thought that her mind would not be an entire blank, though I cannot deny that some such cases are on record. Allow me to question her; perhaps I may be more successful.‘I DUNNO.’ 49 He proceeded to put the matter to the test. Madge called all her cunning to her aid. Her method was simple ; it was one which she had prac- tised over and over again, Whatever question was asked her elicited but one reply: ‘I dunno.’ She repeated it in a dreary monotone which expressed indifference. Yet she was suffering a mental agony, not through conscience—that was not yet awakened —hbut from fear of detection, She was terribly weak and ill. If they tried violence, as her mother used to do under similar circumstances, she felt that she must yield. She had not the strength in her to bear ill-treatment. But they were very gentle. They coaxed and persuaded, trying to assist what they believed to be a failing memory. And Madge held her ground, for in her ears Mrs Dell’s words still rang. She knew that, if she once confessed that her mother lived in Angel Court, she would be sent for, and that all chances of happiness would be taken from her. So she stared at the picture opposite her, and said over and over again, ‘I dunno.’ But the strain was tremendous; she was con- sumed with fear, though her face told nothing of all this, and the doctor soon realised that he must cease his questioning; for the child was pale as marble, and appeared about to faint. He rose, filled a glass with a little weak brandy and water, and held it to her lips. With one sweep of her hand she dashed it from her. The liquid was spilled on the counterpane; the glass shivered into a thousand atoms on the ground. ‘My dear, said Mrs Dell, ‘surely you don’t DCE a nee ee ES - enetietenemeteetin tt eee a Se Oren eva resee ne ee a LM EI STALE NIE TEC POET TR aa on Ee ONDA Age ROE SAE S. Gi AGTN A OER ee ee 50 ‘I DUNNO,’ know what you are doing; that is not physic, it is brandy. The good doctor is giving it to you be- cause he knows you will feel better when you have drunk it.’ ‘I do know what I’m a-doing of, screamed Madge; ‘it’s him as doesn’t, not me. Brandy and gin, and rum and beer, and sich-like, is poison. It makes folks mad. I won’t swaller_a drop of any- thing of the kind, and so I tells yer. Yer don't make me drunk on yer premises. I knows better. Ugh!’ The sentence finished with a shudder, and Madge watched the doctor with an air of mistrust as he prepared to take his departure. He was grateful, for his part, that he had not many such patients as this little waif on his visiting list. His dignity was very much upset—a thing not to be wondered at under the circumstances. Just before the little girl settled down for what all hoped would be a good night’s rest, Mrs Dell bent over her and whispered in her ear: ‘Tell me, love, why did you call me Grannie? Did you ever have a grandmother whom you loved 2’ ‘No, I didn’t never have no grandmother at all; I didn’t never have nobody as loved me,’ said Madge, speaking the truth now. ‘But I kinder dreamt something about a grannie; I’ve dreamt it ever so many nights. I wanted a grannie orful bad, and I see you a-sitting there, looking so pretty-like in your shiny gown. So I ealls out, thinking as it was still dreaming. But it worn’t. There you was, and there you is. It’s real, ain’t it, no gammon ? ‘Cos you kissed me, and yer lips was warm.’‘I DUNNO,’ 51 Mrs Dell kissed her again, and went away, step- ping gently, to be replaced by the nurse, who took her seat in an arm-chair and enjoined silence. The order was obeyed to the letter. Madge did not talk even in her sleep. She lay there peacefully, slumber- ing till day broke; and when her eyes, opening once more, fell upon the pretty room, with its pink and white draperies, her heart was full of gratitude. Did she repent? Ohno! Repentance was not pos- sible for her as yet; truth and falsehood were all one to her. She had never been taught to rank the first higher than the second. So she lay on her pillows, smiling at her success. ‘They won’t never find out,’ she said to herself; ‘leastways not unless the perlice does. And I’ve been and found myself a grannie after all!’ Indeed, the chances of discovery seemed small. Nothing had as yet been found out except that the child had travelled by train from Hitcham to White- ferry. The porters testified to this fact. The large sum of elevenpence was tied up in the hem of her ragged skirt. Later on they showed it to Madge, and asked her how she had come by it, anticipating the old answer, ‘I dunno. However, she varied it on this occasion. ‘Some one gave it me, she said. ‘I dunno who. I didn’t steal it. I never stole nothink all my life long, and I never means to. This at least was true.i OS TERE TOGO See aa rT Se ea ea tna tae ee ee eames meander his einen mm Ce a a CHAPTER Y., A READY PUPIL. greatly surprised when she announced her determination to keep the little vagrant under her own roof, in the event of no one claiming her. They Se were still more astonished when they heard that she had no intention of having her trained in the kitchen for domestic service, and they gazed upon her in utter bewilderment when she said calmly : ‘No, that is not what I mean. My idea is that Madge shall be educated, and live with me as my erandchild did’ ‘Oh, my dear Mrs Dell!’ exclaimed the vicar’s wife in reply to this announcement, ‘that will never do. See the material you have to work on; you cannot make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear,’ Madge was in the room; she stood looking out of the window, apparently engrossed in thought. A few weeks had changed her greatly. Her hair, once so wild and unkempt, curled softly about her head, and was artistic rather than untidy in its luxuriance, Whe MsA READY PUPIL. 53 Her complexion, freed from dirt, showed. pale and clear; her eyes, though still restless, had lost their look of yearning hunger. She wore a dark-red frock, loosely made, neat black shoes and stockings, and a little coral necklace, in which she took great delight. At the sound of Mrs Preston’s voice she turned abruptly. ‘You hadn’t ought to call a poor girl names, said she. ‘I ain’t asow’s ear. And it ain’t kind, neither, to try and get Mrs Dell to send me down with them servants. They don’t want me, and I don’t want them. They are.good enough in their way, but they ain’t my sort; they are uppish and they puts on airs. I can’t get on with that there kind. Mrs Dell, she’s different; she’s a lady, she is. Me and her~ain’t likely to quarrel. No, Mrs Preston, you don’t hold her skein of wool for her to wind. That’s my work, and it’s best as every one should keep in her place.’ She thrust the vicar's wife aside, though not roughly, and knelt down before Mrs Dell, extending her hands. The skein of wool was slipped over them, and Mrs Dell wound quickly and skilfully. This was a process in which Madge took immense delight. Her eyes were full of eagerness when any complication occurred; she heaved a sigh of relief when difficulties were overcome and the ball re- leased, and chuckled for glee as the winding was resumed. It was a September evening; a fire had been lit, the first fire of the season; it burnt cheerily and illumined Madge’s dark, expressive face. When Mrs Preston had left, the girl flung herself on the mat at her friend’s feet and rested her head against her knees.Se ATER IE IBA PP NR ULF 87,7 NC a oat oe bee i igi sh ae A READY PUPIL. ‘Did you never see no pictures in the fire?’ she asked. ‘I does; I sees noend. I sees one now. ‘What is it?’ The dark eyes were so eager that Mrs Dell ex- pected to hear some pretty poetic fancy. Instead Madge said hurriedly : ‘It’s a horrid picture that I sees. I can’t abide it. It’s just a woman as is as tipsy as can be; and she’s a-banging of her little gal, and a-pulling her hair orful. It makes me sick. I ain’t going to look at it no longer. Nobody else shan’t neither.’ She seized the poker and made havoe among the coals. ‘That will do!’ said Mrs Dell. ‘Ladies are never rough, and you want to be a lady, do you not ?’ ‘Yes, said Madge, with decision, ‘I does. ’Cos why? ‘Cos I wants to be a comfort to you, and to live with you. If it warn’t for that I dunno as I should care. But I can’t live with you if folks mock me. I hates to be laughed at. I ain't a-going to give ‘em nothing to laugh at. I’m a-going to learn to talk like ladies’ children does. Then nobody won’t know the difference. I picks up things very quickly. See how nicely I can eat now. I wasn’t long learn- ing that; you just told me what to do, and I done it. I'm a-going to learn to speak proper; it sounds pretty, and I’ve got sense enough to do it if somebody will show me how. The sooner I begins the better. I ain't got to leave off swearin’; that’s one good thing. I never did swear, not when I lived’ Mrs Dell was listening eagerly; she thought a revelation was coming. But the child paused, a crimson flush on her face.A READY PUPIL. 55 ‘What were you going to say? Finish your sentence. Where dd you live, dear child ?’ The keen intelligence had. faded out of Madge’s eyes; her countenance was as a mask, hiding her innermost feelings. A dull, impassive stupidity de- prived it of all its charm. ‘I dunno, she said; ‘I dunno nothing.’ She stared at the fire again. Gradually her ex- pression changed. ‘T sees another picture,’ said she. ‘What is it?’ ‘It’s me now; it’s me grown into a fine lady, ina beautiful pink frock, a-talking grand, just the same as Mrs Preston’s kids. Lor’ bless your heart! I shall learn in no time. I can do some of their speechifyin’ already. Just you listen!’ She repeated a phrase that Gladys Preston had uttered more than once, on the solitary occasion when the two children had met. Her tone was mincing, as the child’s had been, but her accent was also an exact imitation. It was evident that Madge’s powers of mimicry were excellent, and that she could, if so minded, employ them to good purpose when it became a question of her own education. ‘I know a lady who will be good enough to try and teach you, said Mrs Dell. ‘But you must promise me to be very good and very polite.’ ‘Of course,’ replied Madge promptly. ‘I never cheeks nobody unless they cheeks me first; and I reckon this here young lady won't do that. If she’s a friend of yours, it’s likely as she knows how to behave herself.’ ‘She does,’ replied Mrs Dell, smiling. ‘She’s aGR ce tt tee or eee ga i gaat aie nee mee ee <= < _— ee eet ae D8 ht Am MB ig PE I AMI PES fT. estan : : sirname ins tie toomeg ee tale, ea IP os pcg EER MER 4 a Salas iecatdion att oneal bia ae neem A READY PUPIL. perfect lady. You cannot do better than try to imitate her.’ ‘Right you are!’ remarked Madge; ‘you’ve said the word. If I can’t copy her, my name is not Madge. She’d be the first party as I couldn’t mimic, and I’ve tried a good many. Just you say something; it don’t matter how much you says, or how little. I’ll say it after you, same voice, same words, same everything. Fire away!’ Mrs Dell made a very long remark, of a most courteous description, in the gentlest of voices. Madge watched her anxiously. As soon as she finished speaking her pupil began, and it would have been difficult to believe that it was her voice, so perfect was the imitation. ‘Lor’ bless my soul!’ she ejaculated, ‘it’s as easy as winking. I’d like to begin to learn directly. There’s no time to be lost.’ ‘Miss Harrison has promised me that she will come to-morrow morning,’ ‘Right!’ said Madge promptly. ‘I’ll work as hard as I can. I never was no shirk.’ Certainly no more willing pupil ever confronted a teacher than Madge Ridd, with her big dark eyes full of a great desire. She had a positive thirst for knowledge. ‘I’m a-going to make myself fit for my grannie; she said, staring at Miss Harrison. ‘I ain’t fit now, and I knows it. You may do what you like with me. I'll learn all day if you thinks I ought. You’ve got to make me like Eileen as died. I’m a bit like her to look at, Mrs Dell says. She had short, black curly hair; so have I. She had dark eyes; so haveA READY PUPIL. 51 I. I’m about her size, too. Well, all the better. That ’s a something to start with. Now I’ve got to talk like her. It ain’t easy; I can see as you thinks it ain't, by the look in your eyes. But I ain’t a-going to be done. I can talk any way I likes, if I takes pains enough; and I means to take pains.’ Madge was true to her word. Never had a child been born with more pertinacity ; never was there a quicker or more industrious pupil. She had learnt to read while other children were thinking about it ; her intelligence was above the average; it stood her in good stead now. So did her faculty for imitation, which was rare and marvellous. She lowered her shrill young voice, trained to the pitch usually adopted in Angel Court, to the note of Miss Harri- son’s. She spoke softly; she moved quietly; she tried new and more graceful gestures. ‘Miss Harrison says that I am toning down, she would say, in Miss Harrison’s own kindly, approving manner; and Mrs Dell dared not laugh, though she longed to do so, lest she should hurt the child’s feelings. Madge Ridd was not by any means a perfect child ; she had many faults, some born with her, others the result of bad training; but she was, withal, very lovable. Why it would be hard to say. Perhaps because, deep down in her heart, there was a desire to be loved. Those who possess this have an advan- tage over others who do not. Hearts go out to them, though their owners know not why. Madge knew no greater pleasure than to be helpful. Whether cook, housemaid, or parlour-maid needed her assistance, it was all the same to her; she was always ready.a Re tT RE NE ae PS SE NGS aE a I Scr a si i Bil an i 58 oR ee ees gS att nem A READY PUPIL. She was also gay by nature, and here there was nothing to repress her gaiety. It bubbled forth in little light laughs; it crept into her voice, so that her speech was like a song; it danced in her clear, brown eyes, and made them shine like diamonds. Her step was like music as she ran about the great | house; her presence filled it as with sunshine. ‘I am so happy, so happy,’ she said to her kind friend; ‘I don’t believe anybody every was so happy in all the world. Am I getting more like Eileen ?’ ‘Hileen was not quite so gay, said Mrs Dell. ‘Shall I be less gay, Grannie dear ?’ ‘No, no, my love. Eileen was quiet at times because she was not strong. You are strong, thank God. Be yourself; I want nothing better—your merry, laughing self,’ ‘Was Hileen very good ?’ ‘Very good indeed.’ ‘Did she never tell lies ?’ ‘Never; she was truth itself,’ ‘Is it wrong to tell lies ?’ ‘Very wrong.’ ‘Then I won't tell no more.’ ei ‘Any more.’ Vi ‘Any more, I mean. Miss Harrison says that ae when people know you tell lies they won’t trust you. a She says they can’t tell which is truth and which is Van lies. That is sense, isn’t it?’ mt ‘Quite so, Madge.’ il : ‘So I shan’t tell any more lies,’ ope mua Madge finished with this remark, yet words were hovering on her lips. She wanted to say: ‘I have a mother in Angel Court. I told you aA READY PUPIL. 59 lie when I gaid that I didn’t remember—the biggest lie I ever told in my life,’ But she did not dare to speak ; it meant so much. Young as she was, she realised this. She understood thoroughly that if she told the truth this beautiful life, so like a dream of happiness, would be at an end. They would send for her mother. Had they not said so? Madge shuddered at the very thought. ‘Are you cold, my dear?’ Mrs Dell asked anxiously. ‘You must be careful. I would not have you ill again for all the world,’ ‘I don’t want to be ill neither, said Madge, ‘though it was rare larks when I was getting well, lying there in that soft bed, watching you knitting, and having nice things brought me to eat and drink. When I grow up I know what I would like to do,’ ‘Tell me, Madge.’ ‘I would like to be kind to poor children; I would like to give hungry folks food and drink; I would like to nurse ’em when they are sick.’ Her young face was grave and gentle; it was the face of a thoughtful woman rather than a child. There was purpose in it. ‘That is a good resolve, said Mrs Dell. ‘If Iam spared until you are a woman, Madge, I will help you to carry it out. But what put the thought into your little head, I wonder ?’ i 6: eon, she paused ; ‘I mean it’s because I’ve been hungry myself, and couldn’t get any food. I know what it feels like, you see. It’s just as though rats were gnawing inside you. It’s horrid.RENE NaF aA Seen a ENE TR NO RTF SRE 8 = OE ~ ; ; - = a ee ee ae Jaren nce EN Ea hace ng Oe Sr er eer ae yeas my ARS a. MEE Age em em ee One att dee on ante ee Pan sania come ees 62 A READY PUPIL. tabby kitten, with a blue ribbon encircling its throat, and thought it the funniest sight she had ever seen, But there was no need to tell her to be gentle to it; the finest lady in the land could not have handled it more delicately. It was something new to love, and Madge Ridd had an infinite capa- city for loving. Then there was Kelpie, the good old watch-dog. Madge loved him too, She was not afraid of him from the first, though most children drew back in terror when he showed his teeth. ‘I’m sure he won't bite me, she remarked confi- dently. ‘Here, Kelpie, old man, come and say “How do you do?”’ And Kelpie, advancing as far as his chain would permit, stretched himself at her feet, and allowed her to stroke his yellow head with infinite condescen- sion. They were friends from that date—staunch friends and companions. ‘It’sa pity Kelpie can’t talk,’ Madge remarked one day ; ‘I’m sure he’s got a lot to say, if you go by the looks of him.’ But Kelpie preserved silence, and yet made an excellent playmate, and Madge soon ceased to regret his lack of conversational ability. After all, it was but a trifling drawback. He was quite as capable of caressing his favourites as any human being, and Madge loved caresses. She would even allow him to lick her face, and declare it was as good as a wash, though later on she became more fastidious, and dis- played a preference for soap and water. For she had spoken the truth when she prophesied that she would learn quickly. Her aptitude was marvellous ; perhaps the secret lay in her great desire to learn.A READY PUPIL, G3 Very few pupils are quite as anxious about their Own progress as was Madge Ridd; again, very few pupils have so great an object in view. ‘I don’t want Grannie to be ashamed of me,’ Madge would say eagerly. ‘I want to talk like Eileen used to talk.’ So, fond as she was of play, Miss Harrison had sometimes to check her industry, lest she should work beyond her strength. Thus the happy weeks sped on, and all Whiteferry became familiar with Mrs Dell’s protégée. Tt was a perfect October day when Mrs Dell drove her down to the sea-shore. The mist of the early morning had been scattered by the sunshine; the bare branches in the wooded lanes stretched them- selves out to greet a sky as blue as a maiden’s eyes ; here and there an odd-shaped little cloud showed silvery white; the red berries elowed in the hedge- rows. And the sea! Surely the sea had never looked fairer; the scent of it was borne on the breeze. It filled Madge’s nostrils: it animated her with a feeling of excitement that was partly joy and partly sadness. ‘Have you never seen the sea before?’ asked Mrs Dell. ‘Only onee,’ said Madge, ‘ once; that night before —before I came to you. I stood and looked and looked, and it called to me; I heard it quite plainly. It said, “Come, child, come!” I thought it wanted to drown me, so I ran away.’ ‘Why did you think the sea wanted to drown you ?’ ‘Because nobody loved me ; because I had nothingct el idetacaeee ie ee eee Dieta entradas iene . se SE a EE LE a MT a TT: SOR SE TT 64 A READY PUPIL. to eat; because I was so miserable. But now it is different. Now I am such a happy Madge. She skipped about on the sands, holding out her arms, aS though she would include the world, and every one in it, in her embrace. Yet it seemed a relief to her to hug Mrs Dell, who could, and did, return her affection. ‘What does the sea say now?’ asked the lady. ‘Has it still a voice ?’ Madge listened to the sound of the waves as they tumbled, white-crested, upon the shore. ‘The sea has a louder voice than ever, she cried, ‘and I know what it sings. It sings the same song over and over again: “Grannie loves you; Grannie loves you; Grannie loves you!” Doesn't it sing true ?’ Mrs Dell gazed into her flushed, eager face. ‘The sea sings very truly indeed, she said. ‘It has never sung so truly before.’ And she thought with dread of all the efforts that were being made to discover the child’s old home. That it was right to make them she knew. But she could not hinder the throb of joy in her heart be- cause they had been as yet unsuccessful. ‘They will not find out, she said to herself, with a smile, ‘and the child’s loving presence will remain with me always. And Fancy drew a fair picture of future joys. This picture Madge saw also. In her childish hopefulness she had no misgivings.CHAPTER VI. KEEPING A PROMISE, em .T was by means of a very simple incident ‘iy that Madge learned the value of truth. ’ It happened thus. _ The housemaid, who was a good-natured ; girl, asked Mrs Dell’s permission to take her to Theydon Woods. She was moved to this proposal when she ascertained that Madge had never seen a wood. This horrified Jane, who had been born and bred in Whiteferry, and knew the trees in all seasons. ‘I wish,’ she said, ‘that it had been earlier in the year; but there, that is not of much consequence. Theydon Woods are lovely. You may go all over England, and you won't find the likes of them anywhere.’ Jane spoke with as much confidence as if she had tried the experiment, yet, as a matter of fact, she had never been out of Whiteferry. And Mrs Dell, who had travelled a good deal, endorsed her statement, for she loved Theydon Woods dearly, not for their beauty alone, but because she had often wandered there with her grandchild. Eoe Secerstpeen rs neers Se ce a alana to, ola Br 66 KEEPING A PROMISE. So, on the briskest of October mornings, Madge and her companion started on their expedition. There was the light of expectation in Madge’s eyes and a smile on her lips. She talked unceasingly. Gladness is the birthright of a child, but very little of it had come into Madge’s life until now. She was drinking the draught to the full, drinking eagerly and thirstily. Her cup of joy brimmed over. To the ordinary child a visit to Theydon Woods was pleasurable; to Madge it was a keen delight. For her life was new to her, as were all its beauties. She seemed to be standing on some beautiful hill-top, flooded with sunshine, and behind lay the valley in shadow and darkness. To her the simplest pleasure brought rapture; it was so of necessity, for she had an immense capacity for enjoyment, and never, until now, had she known what enjoyment meant. Jane’s smiling countenance, rosy cheeked and comely, reflected her companion’s delight. To look serious with Madge’s radiant face in sight was a sheer impossibility. The housemaid carried a basket, which swung on her arm as she walked. Madge was not a little curious as to its contents. Jane discoursed at length, and her conversation turned to a great extent on somebody whom she called her ‘young man.’ She described him at great length. He was, she declared, the very best-looking person in Whiteferry. He had blue eyes, fair hair, and a pink and white complexion. He wore a blue tie on Sundays, and a grey suit. He and Jane were to be married in the spring; they were getting their furniture already.KEEPING A PROMISE. 67 ‘It’s a fine thing to be married, said Jane. ‘It may be for some folks,’ said little Madge, with a toss of her head ; ‘it wouldn’t do for me,’ ‘Hoity-toity! Why not?’ ‘Because I am never going to leave my grannie— never, not as long as I live.’ ‘Tlike your calling her your grannie, said Jane. _ ‘It’s pretty cool, I must say—when you ve known her such a short while, too.’ ‘It isn’t a short while; it is quite a long time. I knew her before I came here.’ ‘How do you make that out 2’ ‘I used to dream about her. I didn’t see the clothes she wore; I didn’t know people ever dressed that way. But I saw her face, or something very like it.’ ‘Stuff and nonsense!’ said Jane. ‘I don’t believe in dreams.’ ‘That is because your dreams don’t come true, Mine do.’ ‘Stuff and nonsense !’ said Jane again. Madge was not angry ; she only smiled. “You are jealous because I have such lovely dreams,’ said she. For she really had dreamed many times of a kind old lady with gray hair when she lived in Angel Court ; and she thought it very strange. Perhaps, however, it was not quite so wonderful as she imagined; for once a child had lived for a brief space in the London alley with a woman who spoke gently to her, who was kind, and whom she addressed as ‘ Grannie.’ Madge had envied her, and, believing all mothers were cruel like her own, had wished from the bottom5 ELEAF OR I EG LTT A aR Ra IC eam Per men Anew MS Oe ERE a a a nT eee - 5 cD HR more a EE Sana = ae PORE ane pee Fe ee ST ee ee eee ae nes ee gaye 68 KEEPING A PROMISE. of her childish heart that she too had a grannie; and perhaps, when a waking thought is very strong, it repeats itself in our sleep. Anyhow, we are very apt to dream of what we most desire, and Madge, had she known that prayer was possible, would in those days have asked God, in His goodness, to give her a erannie. ‘You ’re a good walker,’ observed Jane. Madge started ; she was dreaming now, but it was no shock to her to be roused. Reality was as pleasant as her imagining. ‘Yes, I like walking,’ she said. ‘I like running too. Ii I sit still too long I want to scream.’ ‘Perhaps you took a deal of exercise where you lived before you came here?’ Jane hazarded. ‘Perhaps I did, perhaps I didn’t, replied Madge pertly. ‘Anyhow, I am going to take some now.’ She started off at full speed. Jane was young and active enough to follow. When they halted, it was only to take breath; their faces were flushed with exercise; and a few moments later off they went again at a jog-trot. | By this means they enlivened their three miles’ walk; and at last they reached Theydon Woods, warmed and in the best of spirits. ‘Oh, how beautiful!’ cried Madge, in an ecstasy. Indeed, the sight was one that a London child might well rejoice over. The trees were of all shades of colour, from fading green to dusky brown, from dusky brown to russet red, and from russet red to inky black. In a distant copse a bird was warbling, but its note was faint; the little songsters who had filled the summer hours with musie couldKEEPING A PROMISE. 69 not be glad now that the scattered leaves lay on the ground. The flowers had long ceased to bloom, the pine-cones lay in fragrant heaps, and from time to time a stray breeze wafted the leaves down at Madge’s feet. There is a sadness in autumn which grown-up persons cannot escape, however gladsome of disposi- tion they may be. But Madge did not feel it. How could she? She laughed for very joy as she saw how fair Nature was, caught the rustling leaves as they fell, and pelted Jane with fir-cones. She peered upwards to the blue sky, and clapped her hands when stray gleams of sunshine pierced through the branches. The word melancholy had no meaning for her. It was associated with Angel Court, and had not a place in lovely Whiteferry. Yet for a few moments she was silent; the solitariness awed her. It was a relief to hear the sound of the woodcutter’s axe in the distance. Presently Madge looked about her with sharp, curious eyes. ‘It’s a fine place for Hide-and-go-seek, cried she. This assertion was undeniable. Jane met it by the question : ‘Do you feel inclined for a game ?’ ‘Rather,’ assented Madge. Certainly no better game was ever played by two persons. Jane was nearly as difficult to weary as her companion. But at last she sank down on a convenient tree-trunk, and took a book out of her basket. It had a very handsome binding, and was full of pictures. ‘I brought this along,’ said she, ‘ because I thoughtSRT Ee ea ag AR at pha an ag angen 70 KEEPING A PROMISE. we should want a little amusement when we were resting. One can’t walk about for ever.’ Madge sat down beside her, and looked over her shoulder. The book was Hans Andersen’s fairy stories, and it was exquisitely illustrated. The child was in raptures. She read the story of the little match-girl aloud, until her feelings became too much for her, when she wept on Jane’s shoulder. ‘Well, I never!’ said the young woman. ‘ You needn't carry on that way. It isn’t true.’ ‘It is, said Madge excitedly. ‘I know itis. Folks wre hungry just that way, and don’t get a Christmas dinner.’ She spoke between her sobs. ‘Well, you ain’t hungry now, any way,’ said Jane, smiling. ‘If you are, you needn’t be for long.’ She opened her basket and drew out a dainty meat-pie. ‘No, said Madge, taking the slice offered her eagerly enough. ‘I ain’t hungry now, but I don’t want any one else to be hungry either. When I think of it, it makes me sick.’ ‘Don’t think of it, then.’ This seemed rather good advice under the circum- stances. Madge did her best to take it. The book helped her. She was fascinated by the pictures. ‘Don’t grease it, whatever you do,’ said Jane. Madge looked at the fly-leaf, and read: ‘Eileen Dell. A present from her loving grandmother, ‘Why, it isn’t yours !’ exclaimed the child. ‘How good it was of Grannie to lend it you!’ , ‘Wasn't it ?’ said Jane dryly. ‘But then she 7s so good. I shall tell her howKEEPING A PROMISE. 71 pretty the story was. It 2s a pretty story, though it makes me cry.’ “You won't tell her anything about it, said Jane. ‘If you do, I shan’t ever take you out again.’ ‘Then she didn’t lend it you—you took it?’ said Madge, in some surprise. ‘What if I did?’ Madge made no reply to this. ‘Promise me you won't tell, persisted her com- panion. ‘All right,’ said Madge. It was not a very difficult thing to promise, and she had no idea of acting ill-naturedly towards Jane. But she did not feel quite casy, and somehow or other she had no inclination to look at the book any more. On the contrary, she took it into her head to try a little tree-climbing, and showed a great deal of agility in the attempt. When she came down again ‘ Hide-and-go-seek’ was resumed, for Jane complained of cold toes; and there is certainly nothing better than exercise for the cure of this complaint. But as the daylight waned Jane and her young companion both grew weary. A dullness came over them as the mist began to fall, and they shivered. ‘We will go home, they said in a breath ; and both were glad when they were on the high-road once more, and they saw pleasant pictures, with the mind’s eye, of cosy rooms and a cheery fire. They were within but a stone’s-throw of The Grange, when Jane cried suddenly: ‘The book! I have left the book behind me!’ Madge turned pale. Jane’s face was white also,- i } ' ( : i ? 4 a * t B i: é ': : KEEPING A PROMISE. ‘Oh! what will you do?’ eried the child. ‘It is of no consequence ; I will manage,’ rejoined her companion. ‘All you have to do is to hold your tongue,’ This seemed to Madge a very easy arrangement, as far as she was concerned. She was too young to foresee the difficulties that were likely to occur later on. Indeed, being light-hearted, she did not give the subject much thought. New delights awaited her in the shape of a meal something between tea and supper, and partaking of the charms of both. Nor did she remember the book until a day later, when she was passing the library door and heard her name mentioned. Madge had not yet learned that it is not right to play eavesdropper. She stopped to listen. Mrs Dell was speaking; her words were not all audible, but Jane’s voice carried well. ‘Miss Madge had the book with her in the woods,’ said she; ‘she seemed very pleased with the pic- tures. I don’t think she thought she was doing wrong when she took it. I suppose she must have left it behind her. I didn’t see her carry it home.’ Madge did not wait to hear anything else, for there was a movement inside the room. She ran away and hid herself in a dark corner of the passage. When Jane came out she found her there. ‘You 've been listening,’ said she. ‘Yes, replied Madge quietly ; ‘I heard every word. I am going to tell Mrs Dell that you took it. I’ ‘You can’t,’ said Jane angrily; ‘you promised me you wouldn't.’KEEPING A PROMISE. ‘If I did, would it be a lie?’ “Of course it would,’ ‘I ain’t going to tell no more lies, I promised Mrs Dell I wouldn't.’ The child turned away, and went into the library, closing the door behind her. Jane was puzzled. Then she said to herself, with an air of relief: ‘That will be all right. Mrs Dell won't be angry with the child. She is so wrapped up in her that she don’t know how to scold her. Now, f should have caught it finely. And Madge won’t tell, Not she! I can tell by the look of her,’ Meanwhile Madge entered the library on tiptoe. Mrs Dell sat with her head in her hands, She was crying, and did not know that she had any audience. The child stood and stared at her, in a pitiful con- dition of mingled surprise and distress. Women cried but seldom in Angel Court; they had scant time for tears. If their nearest and dearest died they must rise and work, the harder, perhaps, because a helper was taken from them. And why should Grannie weep, Madge wondered, when she had all she needed? As she wondered she watched, and a faint glimmering of the truth came to her. She was certainly, as she herself had stated, ‘quick at picking things up.’ Mrs Dell looked up, and became aware of her presence. Suddenly it occurred to her to tell the cause of her distress. She hoped to move Madge to confession. ‘Iam a foolish old lady to ery like this,’ she said, ‘but I have lost the book that I gave to my darlingBATS a at a pce Ta Re ee perimeter emg omimitin tip tniata scmrigntaincy 74 KEEPING A PROMISE. grandchild Eileen on her last birthday. It has brought back many painful recollections. Hileen loved it so.’ ‘Yes,’ said Madge, ‘of course, the pictures was so pretty—I mean the pictures were so pretty.’ She corrected herself, without a trace of embarrass- ment. ‘You have seen them, then ?’ said Mrs Dell, looking hard at her. ‘Yes; most of them.’ The old lady wondered at the child’s eftrontery ; it made her feel sick and sore at heart, and she wept again. But she made no accusation. She hoped and believed that conscience would speak ere long, and cause Madge to confess. The child stood gazing at her, a smile hovering about her mouth. It was almost more than her kind friend could bear. She turned her head away. Madge was seized with a desire to speak, but repressed it. ‘I’ve only got to wait a bit, she said. ‘I shall be able to set it right before long.’ That evening, before she went to bed, she knelt down, and added to the prayer she had been taught, one of her own composition. She uttered it very earnestly : ‘Please God, let it be a fine night, because of the book.’ After this she lay down in happy confidence, and slept peacefully until six o'clock in the morning. She jumped up, lit the gas, and ascertained the time from the clock on the mantelpiece. It was exactly the hour at which she had intended to wake. ThisKEEPING A PROMISE. 15 gave her great satisfaction. She dressed herself quickly, put on her hat and cloak, and crept down- stairs in the darkness, Then she unbolted the street-door, and sped along in the direction of They- don Woods. It was a straight road, and easy enough to follow. ‘I’m a-going to find that book,’ said she, ‘if I stay there all day to hunt for it.’ At last she reached the woods; her eagerness had made the way appear very long, but she had no thought of turning from her purpose. It took more than a little fatigue to damp Madge Ridd’s ardour. She stood and tapped herself on the forehead. ‘Now just you wake up and use your senses, my dear, said she; ‘you ain’t such a fool as to have forgotten whereabouts you spent yesterday after- noon, I suppose.’ It was light enough by now; she could see the bare-branched trees; only the worst of it was, they were all so terribly alike. But by-and-by she re- cognised certain landmarks, and before long she had found her way to the place where she and Jane had played ‘ Hide-and-go-seek.’ She began her search at once. It was a long and wearisome one, but she never flagged for a moment. She was animated by the thought of Mrs Dell’s tears. ‘There won’t be no more crying when she has got her book back, said she. Suddenly a ery of joy broke the stillness. Madge had found the lost treasure. She hugged it to her bosom and jumped for joy. A distant church clock struck eleven; she had been away from home for nearly five hours. But she was not perturbed.a eet pe en a : i if : » a 4 \ i" t Y 7 TI i nae gona perme oe are 76 KEEPING A PROMISE, ‘They ain’t likely to worry about me, she said. ‘I ain’t a kid as is likely to get itself lost.’ Here, in the woods, she spoke her old tongue ; grammar was no longer a consideration. She turned over the leaves of the book in a transport of delight, and spelt out the inscription. ‘There won’t be no more crying,’ said she, as she hurried along once more. A great impatience seized her, an impatience to right the wrong, which she could not put into words. ‘It will take me a jolly long time to get home,’ said she. ‘Hullo, you there !’ : This appeal, somewhat peremptory in nature, was made to a boy who was driving a donkey-cart loaded with vegetables. He drew up by the path- way. Madge looked very insinuating. ‘Yer might give me a lift, said ghe, showing her teeth in a pleasant and coaxing smile. ‘Up you jumps!’ said the boy. Madge was by his side in a moment. In this style she arrived at The Grange, causing the inhabitants no little astonishment.CHAPTER. Vit NEW FRIENDS, PK it ADGE’S sudden disappearance filled The ee Grange with consternation. Jane raised the alarm at seven oclock, when she went to call the child, and it spread rapidly. Early rising had not been one of her characteristics, She rose obedi- ently, directly she was bidden, but the soft bed was as yet too great a luxury to be relinquished willingly. However, the first conclusion was, that she would be found somewhere in the garden. A search was made in every nook and corner. Mrs Dell assisted eagerly. Cook, gardener, and parlour- maid were sent in different directions, to see if they could find any trace of the runaway. Jane remained with her mistress. The young woman’s heart was full of misgivings ; all sorts of doubts and fears assailed her. She knew Madge pretty well; she realised that there was in the child a wild and daring spirit. Neither by nature nor by training was she like other children. She was impulsive, passionate in her affections, likely to be pushed to extremities; and she had over-wae pean ni 78 NEW FRIENDS. heard the false accusation brought against her, Jane recalled the agonised expression in her dark eyes, Had she run away in order not to break her word? Jane believed her quite capable of such an action. She grew more and more alarmed as the slow hours passed, and the signs of this did not escape Mrs Dell, though her own anxiety was so great. She was a close observer; the expres- sion in her housemaid’s face puzzled her; the girl could not meet her glance; her eyes dropped, as do the eyes of a person who is convicted of a bad action. Suddenly the mistress turned upon the maid, laid her hand on her shoulder, and said: ‘Let there be no concealment. Tell me all you know about the child’ The appeal was so sudden and direct that Jane, whose conscience was troubling her greatly, gave way at once. Trembling from head to foot and erying bitterly, she confessed that she had told a terrible falsehood. ‘I—I am very sorry; I wish I hadn’t done it, she cried, wringing her hands. She expected anger and reproach. Instead of this Mrs Dell looked at her with great compassion. ‘Oh, my poor girl! who knows what mischief you may have worked?’ said she. ‘And for what? To escape a scolding; nothing more. Think what it is to know that you are under a suspicion, and yet to have your tongue tied, so that you dare not clear yourself. Poor little Madge! Where can she be ?’ Silence fell upon the two women, and they gazedNEW FRIENDS. 79 at one another with terror in their eyes. Imagina- tion can paint terrible pictures. It did so now. And no wonder! It was already midday, and no traces of the fugitive had yet been discovered. They both started back at the sound of a wild halloo, then rushed to the window, as they realised that it came from without. There sat Madge, with a picturesque background of green vegetables, in a small donkey-cart, side by side with a good- tempered-looking, disreputably clothed boy, wearing a dilapidated hat on the top of his red curls. She brandished a book aloft, holding it well in view, as she nodded and smiled. Her companion nodded and smiled also, out of sheer good-fellowship. ‘Take off your hat to the lady,’ cried Madge. He did not grasp her meaning quickly enough, so she whipped it off for him and waved it in the air. Then she tapped him on the shoulder, bade him good-bye, with a friendly word of thanks for the service rendered her, and ran indoors exultantly. She confronted Mrs Dell in the dining-room, smiles beaming on her face. She looked the very embodiment of joy; her cheeks were red with exercise and the cool air: her eyes glowed with triumph. Yet, even in her excitement, she studied Mrs Dell’s feelings, and checked the words she was about to utter, for they would not have been nearly so grammatically arranged as those which fell on the good lady’s ears. ‘You mustn’t ery any more, Grannie dear, she said, with quaint composure ; ‘I have found the book.’ Mrs Dell took it from her hand ; her own shook with excitement,Saat ela anc ree " - me eae wee eee “ i es Se ee ee en —— a — otc ep aro oy memento Oe ee rn ee eee inne ? 80 NEW FRIENDS. ‘Where did you find it?’ she asked. ‘In the woods.’ ‘Was it you who left it there ?’ Madge lifted her eyes and looked at Jane; the colour rose to her forehead, and died away again. ‘I—I mustn't tell, she answered slowly. Mrs Dell advanced and laid her hand on her shoulder. The touch was just a trifle less gentle than usual, it seemed to imply a command. The child tore herself away. ‘TI won’t tell,’ she cried ; ‘not even for you, Grannie. You said I wasn’t to tell no more lies, didn’t you ? And I said I wouldn't. Now I promised some one that I wouldn’t tell about this here book, and it’s telling lies to break your promise.’ A woman of forty years of age could not have looked more resolved than little Madge Ridd did at that moment. She closed her lips firmly, deter- mined that the secret should not escape them. Mrs Dell looked at Jane. Jane met her glance as though she understood it, then turned to the child and said: ‘It’s all right now, dear; I’ve told the truth. I wish I had done it at first. I’m right-down ashamed of myself, that I am !’ Madge took no heed of this expression of peni- tence. She was beside herself for joy. ‘Then I may tell all about where I found the fairy tales ?’ she cried, in a transport of delight. ‘Certainly,’ said Mrs Dell, with a smile; ‘that is just what we are longing to hear.’ Madge’s tongue being loosened, she chattered to her heart's content. Though she was more eloquentNEW FRIENDS. 81 than grammatical, no one reproved her; she had so much to say that interested all. She poured forth her news, with Mrs Dell’s arm around her. Her boots were thick with clay, and the carpet was a delicate one. No one said a word about that elther, and Madge was so enthusiastic and happy that she even forgot how hungry she was, till the steaming hot coffee was brought in, when its fragrance filled her nostrils, mingled with that of frizzling bacon. This was too much for her ; the claims of nature could no longer be disregarded, She was surprised to find that Mrs Dell had not as yet partaken of any food; somewhat concerned also. ‘Why didn’t you, Grannie ?’ she asked, ‘I was so anxious, my dear child, so very anxious about you.’ ‘Did you think I was lost?’ Madge appeared greatly amused. ‘Yes, dear.’ ‘Why, Grannie, I ain’t a kid!’ ‘A what, dear 2’ ‘A child, you know. I’m a big girl. I know my way about.’ ‘And yet you were lost before.’ ‘When ?’ ‘When God guided your footsteps to my door.’ Madge struggled with a choking sensation. For a brief moment she realised how great was the deception she was carrying on. In her childish way, she compared her falsehood with Jane’s. Then, with the instinct to excuse herself, to be found in all of us, the old as well as the young, she told F82 NEW FRIENDS. herself that her lie injured no one. Her mother did not really want her back ; she was no pleasure to her, while to Mrs Dell she was a great comfort. It would be foolish, absurd in the extreme, to speak the truth. More than that, it was impossible. She could not utter the words that would send her back to Angel Court and its manifold miseries. Instead, she rose hurriedly and hugged Mrs Dell. ‘O Grannie, I do so love you, she cried, ‘and I am so happy with you! Jane is going to be married one day, but I am not. I am going to stay with you for ever and ever. Amen.’ Mrs Dell could not help laughing at this quotation from the prayer-book. Nor did the energetic caress disturb her. She settled her cap and went on with her breakfast, rather refreshed by it than otherwise. And when grace was said, she thanked God, not only for the food she had eaten, but also for the companion who shared it with her. ‘Grannie’ said Madge a few moments later, ‘Jonas has a sick mother and two little sisters. His father is dead; he is only sixteen, and he works for the lot. He isn’t a bad sort, is he?’ ‘On the contrary, I should think he was a remark- ably good sort.’ ‘If I might have the elevenpence—my eleven- pence, you know—out of the money-box where you put it, I should like to give it to Jonas, if you please, Grannie.’ | ‘But I thought it was to be spent on a hoop. ‘I did say so, but I did not know Jonas then. He wants lots of things more than J want a hoop. I’d rather he had a new hat. I don’t like to see aNEW FRIENDS, 83 boy’s hair showing through a hole in the top of his hat, especially if his hair is red and stands on end.’ ‘It certainly does not look nice. So you propose to buy him a hat, do you?’ ‘Yes, please, Grannie, this afternoon, if you don’t mind,’ ‘Not in the least; the sooner the better !’ So the carriage was ordered, and Mrs Del] and Madge drove to the neighbouring town. The child nestled down beneath the fur rug, and listened to her companion’s gentle words, pondering over them deeply. The old lady tried to speak as simply as she could of the value of truth. ‘Jane is very sorry for having deceived me so, and I forgive her freely,’ she said. ‘I shall try to forget as well as to forgive. But when a person has told you a terrible falsehood, you cannot feel at ease with them for a long while. You are not sure that they may not fall into the same temptation again, and when you ask them a question you doubt the truth of their reply. It is just as though you had been cheated with false money. When the same person hands you another coin you look at it sus- piciously ; you try whether it rings true. “Is it genuine?” you ask yourself. You are angry with yourself for letting such a thought enter your head. But there it is, and you cannot get rid of it. Only time can make you trust a person who has told you a deliberate falsehood. Do you under- stand ?’ Yes, Madge understood ; she understood so perfectly that she said to herself, ‘I mustn’t ever tell. Grannie wont believe anything I say afterwards if I do,’a te cit sets meni d ons tection: See ee oe = csiieaaeae oeenaiuaeane eT " cee $i age ee ae FeO ge yl ae 8 COMM LE ek Re TE ee oe - = ee tore fal ae ip htt ta 84 NEW FRIENDS. Mrs Dell’s gentle words carried a threat with them. Madge’s conscience was not clear; she could not re- ceive them simply as they were uttered. She magni- fied their meaning. But the good lady did not know this; the attention and interest shown by the young listener gratified her; she said more than she would otherwise have said because of it, and every word sank into Madge’s heart. She clasped her hands tightly, and said within herself, ‘I must not tell.’ Silence would have been impossible to any other child of Madge’s age, but she had not had the chance to be as other children are; she had led so strange and unnatural a life. She guarded the beautiful Pre- sent like a treasure. She dreaded lest she should lose her dear possession. To speak was to put her happiness on one side. It was a deed of heroism of which she was not capable. They had reached their destination. Madge’s fears and doubts were forgotten ina moment. She sprang out of the carriage and helped Mrs Dell to alight. Somehow or other, Madge was always at hand when assistance was required. They went into the shop together hand-in-hand. Madge felt in her pocket; her money was all safe. Mrs Dell took a chair and left her to do her own bargaining. It amused her to watch the child; she was so independent and capable in her ways, yet withal so eager and so childish. Her choice was soon made; she fixed upon a cloth cap with a peak. When the shopman offered her a bright blue one she shook her head. ‘Black is best for Jonas, said she; ‘he is a red- haired boy.’ ‘One shilling, Miss,’ said the shopman politely.NEW FRIENDS, 85 Madge’s colour changed, ‘I have only got elevenpence,’ said she. ‘ Couldn’t you take off the penny ?’ ‘No, my dear young lady; it is cheap at a shilling,’ The child paused and pondered, surveying the brown-paper parcel, which she could not yet call her own, with longing eyes, ‘I mean to have that cap, she said with decision, ‘It will just suit Jonas, Wait a bit ; you shall have the extra penny in a moment,’ She turned away in order—so Mr Smith thought—to ask Mrs Dell for the money. But this was not Madge’s plan. To buy a present with some one else’s money did not seem to her at all the correct thing. She darted out into the street at full speed. A dog-cart stood at the door; the gentleman who occupied it was evidently looking about for some one to hold his horse for him. He found himself conironted by a little girl, neatly dressed in a fur- trimmed paletot; a round felt hat surmounted her short, curly hair ; her eyes had a pleading expression. ‘Please, sir, if I hold him for you, will you give me a penny?’ said this small person. He looked down at her in great astonishment. Then, being a native of Whiteferry, he recognised the child whom Mrs Dell had adopted. Indeed, Mrs Dell was a friend of his. ‘I'll give you twopence, my dear, if you don’t let Bess run away,’ said he, smiling. ‘I will hold her tight, sir” replied Madge; ‘but I only want a penny.’ Mr Holmes went inside, where he found Mrs Dell, who was looking on, had heard everything, and wasbe Et tt } i i 86 NEW FRIENDS. determined to let matters take their course. He had the affair explained to him, made his purchase, and rejoined Madge. ‘She’s rather an awkward customer, is Bess,’ said the child; ‘all on the fidget; but I held her in’ ‘ Have you ever done a job of this kind before ?’ ‘Lor’ bless you, yes. But girls don’t stand as much chance as boys ; gentlemen choose boys before them. I’m sure I don’t know why. Girls are ever so much steadier.’ ‘Well, my dear, you have earned your twopence at any rate. Jam sorry I kept you waiting so long.’ He gave her the coppers. She returned one. ‘I only want a penny, thank you, she said politely. ‘I’m not a poor girl. Mrs Dell, that lives at The Grange, is my grannie. She gives me every- thing I want.’ She made a demure little movement, something between a bow and a courtesy, which she felt to be very high class, and hurried into the shop. ‘Here you are, Mr Smith, said she; ‘it’s all square now. You've got your money, and I’ve got the cap for Jonas. Good-day.’ They drove away again, and it may be imagined that Mrs Dell improved the occasion by telling Madge never to disgrace her by acting in such a manner again. She did nothing of the kind; no word of reproof escaped her. She knew that old habits could not be dropped at a moment’s notice; she knew also that time would teach Madge to adapt herself to her new surroundings. For, of all instructors, time is the most patient and the most effectual.NEW FRIENDS. 87 So Madge chattered on gaily until they reached Rosemary Lane, where the mother of Jonas lay on her sick-bed. Good and kind as Mrs Dell was, she had not visited the poor much. She was a little timid of intruding upon them, for even old folks can be shy, and she hesitated on the threshold of No. 9 Rosemary Lane. Madge was not troubled by any feelings of this nature. She entered boldly, and peered around the dimly-lighted room. ‘Where’s Jonas, Mrs Judd?’ said she. ‘I’ve bought him a new cap out of my own money; it ain’t nice to see his red hair coming out through the roof of his hat. I like your Jonas, Mrs Judd; he let me ride in his cart with him; he’s a gentleman.’ The invalid was a little taken aback by this abrupt address, but her son had told her of his adventure, and she was quick enough to put two and two together. ‘Jonas !’ she called. He came careering into the room, carrying a flaxen-haired little girl on his shoulder. When he saw Madge he deposited his burden on the floor. ‘Glad to see you, Missie,’ said he. Madge conducted him to the farther end of the room, and an eager whispering began. It ended with a triumphant unpacking of the brown-paper parcel, The cap was whipped out and placed on Jonas’s head. He was then led forward for exhibi- tion, and stood sheepishly pulling at his red forelock. ‘He looks very nice, doesn’t he ?’ said Madge. There was a general chorus of approval. Mrs Dell was seated by Mrs Judd’s bedside, talking to her in a kind, easy way. Madge had smoothed over88 NEW FRIENDS. the difficulties of an introduction. The kindly visitor had no greater thought in life than how to use her money for the good of others. Here was an oppor- tunity ready to hand; she was not slow to take advantage of it. When Mrs Dell left No. 9 Rosemary Lane she had gladdened the sick mother’s heart with promises of help. ‘Jonas, said Mrs Judd that evening, ‘when I get well I am to go three times a week to The Grange to help the cook. That will be seven-and-sixpence a week for certain. And besides that, there will be some plain sewing I can do at home.’ ‘That's prime,’ said Jonas; ‘and all along of little Missie’s riding with me in the green-cart. I shall get a rise soon; the governor told me so to-day. And the doctor says you'll soon be on your legs again. Bless your heart, Mother, in a few weeks’ time we shan’t have nothing to grumble at,’ His prophecy proved to be correct. The doctor declared that Mrs Dell’s visit was the Saving of his patient. Nor was he greatly mistaken, though he spoke so strongly ; for when we are ill good news is often as useful as a tonic. Promise of work in the future did wonders in the way of setting Mrs Judd’s heart at rest. “No need to worry yourself into fiddle-strings now, Mother,’ said Jonas, if she began to talk of money matters. ‘We shall pull through right enough, Don’t forget what Mrs Dell said.’ Thus cheered, Mrs Judd did not forget. She turned her thoughts to the time when she should go to The Grange, and made cheery plans as sheNEW FRIENDS. 89 lay patiently awaiting the return of health. She had something to look forward to, and it is won- derful how much that means, As for Madge, a very wonderful thing happened to her on the following day. When she was at her studies with Miss Harrison, there came a summons for her to go down into the drawing-room. There sat Mrs Dell, entertaining two visitors—Mr Holmes and his daughter Evelyn, an only girl, fourteen years of age. She looked as pretty as a picture, and Madge could not take her eyes off her. Her soft fair hair glis- tened like spun silk in a stray gleam of sunlight; her eyes were blue as the sea, her smile full of charm. Madge’s heart went out to her; but she was a trifle awed by the handsome clothes she wore. There was something impressive in the richness of the gray fur with which her crimson pelisse was trimmed, and in the handsome feathers that adorned her hat. Madge had seen girls dressed like this in the old days when she had tramped about London, barefoot, and stared curiously in at the windows of passing broughams. Besides, Evelyn Holmes was so much older than she was—quite a grown-up young lady. Madge could think of nothing to say, though she had chatted so freely with Jonas. She had an odd, uncomfortable feeling that Evelyn had heard about her holding her father’s horse, and was laughing at her. Madge had confided this episode to cook and Jane, and both of them had assured her that it was a most unlady-like proceeding, and that she ought to be ashamed of herself. She began to be ashamed of herself, but she did not know why; she certainlycep tarnercnae? 90 NEW FRIENDS. had not done anything wrong. To earn an honest penny was not held to be by any means disgraceful in Angel Court. The matter really required some clearing up. Madge made up her mind to ask Miss Harrison’s opinion on the earliest occasion. She stood unsociably apart from her pretty visitor. Mrs Dell and Mr Holmes went on talking. Evelyn’s colour rose as she crossed the room and stood by Madge; she looked prettier than ever. ‘Father wants us to be friends. Will you?’ she whispered. ‘I would like very much, replied Madge promptly ; ‘but I held his horse, you know, and he gave mea penny. I wanted it badly to make up a shilling to buy Jonas Judd a new hat. But cook and Jane say no lady will associate with me if they know about it; they said so last night. Perhaps he didn’t tell you.’ ‘Yes, he did. I thought it was awfully funny.’ ‘It wasn’t. Bess wanted to run away; I was afraid she would.’ ‘Well, she didn’t. She is safe in her stable. She’s such a dear, good old mare. Wouldn’t you like to feed her with sugar ?’ ‘Rather!’ Madge drew a breath of longing. ‘Then you shall. Father means to ask Mrs Dell if you may come to tea with me to-day. I know a lot about you already. Miss Harrison teaches me music, and she told me.’ As may well be supposed, Mrs Dell did not refuse the invitation so. kindly given to her protégée. She knew how valuable the friendship of Evelyn would prove to Madge; her only fear was that the delicatelyNEW FRIENDS. nurtured girl might not find anything in common with the little waif, who, though nothing was known of the past, was clearly a child of the streets. But Evelyn was a romantic girl; she was greatly attracted by the mystery that surrounded her new acquaint- ance. She was also very affectionate, and there was about Madge a longing to be loved, that showed itself in a thousand little ways and endeared her to many. Besides, she was so unlike other children, so easily amused. When she was shown a drawerful of dolls, which her young hostess no longer played with, she grew crimson with surprise and pleasure. ‘May I nurse it?’ she asked timidly, gloating over a big waxen baby in long-clothes. ‘Why, of course you may ; that is what it is meant for.’ The doll was placed in Madge’s arms, and she walked gravely up and down with it, pausing now and then to inspect its toes. ‘I never had no doll—I mean any doll,’ said she. ‘You nurse it very handily, though, Madge. Mother always used to tell me I did not. I wonder why you manage so much better than | did, if you have had so little experience.’ ‘I’ve nursed folk’s babies; that’s why. Mrs O’Connor had a sweet little baby, with hair the colour of yours. It was as pretty as this dolly. I used to nurse it; but it died. The doctor said Mrs O’Connor shouldn’t have given it gin.’ ‘I should think not. How horrible! Did she really give it gin?’ ‘Yes, because she thought it w ould send it to sleep.a Sj Sa A een oe eT oa oa wee 2 eles Blac Ge NEW FRIENDS. She didn’t mean to kill it; but gin is poison. I heard a man say so, a preaching man, as stood on a table at the corner of the street. He was a total sustainer ; he never drank anything but water. I am a total sustainer too.’ Evelyn smiled. Madge’s keen eye detected the smile. ‘Did I say it wrong?’ she asked anxiously. ‘We call people who do not drink anything but water total abstainers in Whiteferry,’ said Evelyn with delicacy. ‘I think that is the right word.’ ‘Then I'll say it. Whiteferry manners are good enough for me, replied Madge, smiling in her turn. Having settled this question in her mind to her own satisfaction, she went on talking about Mrs O’Connor’s baby, while she rocked the doll in her arms in a most professional manner. It was not unnatural, after recelving so much in- formation, that Evelyn should say, ‘Where did you live before you came to Whiteferry, Madge dear ?’ The easy assurance which had marked Madge’s manner when she lied to Mrs Bowser and the police- man was gone for ever. She could fabricate no more romances. Her bright, expressive face became dull and sullen in expression. Her frank eyes fell; their long dark lashes lay heavy on her crimson cheeks, ‘I dunno, she said in. a low voice. ‘I dunno nothing.’ She could think of no other phrase than the old stock one she had repeated so many times during her convalescence. She knew that it was incorrect in point of language as well as of fact; but she could not coin another sentence. She had the air of oneNEW FRIENDS. 93 who repeats a lesson. The effort was a terrible one: a childish longing to speak out, to cast herself on her young friend’s neck and sob out the whole miser- able truth, possessed her; but she dared not. Her eyes filled with tears; she let them roll down her cheeks unheeded. ‘I am so sorry,’ said Evelyn’s gentle voice. She kissed Madge affectionately as she spoke. ‘I won’t ask any more questions, dear, said she; ‘I did not mean to grieve you.’ ‘Them as don’t ask questions don’t get told no lies,” said Madge promptly; but her attempt at gaicty was a failure; it did not deceive Evelyn. ‘I wonder whether she remembers more than she cares to tell,’ thought the girl. ‘She hasn’t forgotten about Mrs O’Connor’s baby, anyhow.’ But she did not confide her thought to any other person. She was too young to be suspicious. And Madge was very careful not to betray herself again.ac a Ce ae - an a Eh eee RT ae ee ee ee ey TS ge Lai Os = CHAPTER VLIL ‘I SAW A GHOST.’ P<-&RS DELL and Madge sat together in the uPA firelight one evening early in December, 94/6 the lady comfortably ensconced in an arm- GESKSYD* chair, the child on a stool at her feet. aa ae This was a position they often occupied. Se Madge thought that the half-hour spent thus was one of the pleasantest in the day. Kelpie, who, by all the rules, should have been outside, lay on the hearth-rug, his nose between his paws, blink- ing serenely. The tabby kitten slumbered beside him, rousing occasionally to make a dab at the watch-dog’s tail. Kelpie did not resent the indig- nity. It is probable that, he would have laughed indulgently had he been a human being; but as a dog, this privilege was denied him. Mrs Dell had been dozing. Madge did not mind this. There was pleasure in the enforced silence, a sense of drowsy peace and happiness. She took delight in watching the quaint shadows that the firelight cast on walls and ceiling, and her vivid imagination found occu- pation in discovering pictures amongst the glowing coals.‘I SAW A GHOST.’ 95 They were all cheery ones now; child-like, she lived in the glad present and the fruitful, happy future, From time to time she glanced at Mrs Dell, but she had no desire to rouse her. She liked to fancy that she was protecting the sleeping lady, and almost wished that some such monster as she had read of in fairy stories would appear on the scene; for then she, Madge Ridd, would rise and slay it with any weapon that might come handy—the poker, the shovel, or what not. There was a fervour of devotion in her heart, a gratitude so intense that words could not convey it. She wanted to translate it into action. She wanted also to share her great happiness with others who were less fortunate, though she could not have put her wish into words. The opportunity came later, when Mrs Dell awoke. ‘I wonder, said the old lady, ‘ what Grannie’s dear little Madge would like best to do on Christmas Day if she had her choice.’ ‘Christmas Day is Christ’s birthday, isn’t it ?’ said the child. ‘Miss Harrison told me a lot about it,’ ‘Yes, love It is a day of rejoicing; a lovely, happy day ; a day for counting up our mercies.’ ‘I couldn't do that, Madge replied promptly; ‘mine are too many. If I put them all down on a slate, 1 wouldn’t be any better either. It would be such a long, long row that I couldn’t reckon it up.’ She threw her head back. Mrs Dell stroked the radiant, upturned face very gently. ‘I hope you will always feel like that,’ said she. ~*Of course I shall, Grannie, because I live with you.’96 ‘I SAW A GHOST, The old lady’s gentle face became as bright as the child’s. It is a good thing to know that we have turned a miserable young life into a dream of joy, and the knowledge was borne in upon Mrs Dell beyond dispute. ‘Well,’ she said, returning to her question, ‘ what would you like to do on Christmas Day, dear child ?’ ‘I should like to have a dinner-party, if you don’t mind, Grannie darling, said the little London waif calmly ; ‘rather a big dinner-party. And a Christ- mas-tree as well, if you’ve got enough money. But I suppose I can’t have all that. Of course I can’t. Jane says, although you are a rich lady, I must not imagine that you are the Queen.’ ‘How many do you want to have at your dinner- party ?’ Mrs Dell spoke so quietly that Madge feared she was being reproved for her boldness. ‘I was seeing a picture of it all in the fire while you slept, she said. ‘Of course I know it can’t come true, though.’ ‘That remains to be proved. Tell me what you saw. ‘There was Mrs Judd, and Jonas, and the two little girls, and old Mrs Stemp, and the boy that sweeps the crossing, and blind Billy that lives next door to the Judds, and Jane’s aunt—the one who is so poor—and her three boys, and the mangling- woman. That makes twelve. Oh! I forgot. Evelyn Holmes makes thirteen, and you and I are fifteen. But of course it won’t do; it is only a fire-picture. You couldn’t have so many.’ ‘All these good folks are very poor, Madge. How‘I SAW A GHOST’ 97 is it that you don’t want the vicar’s children, and the nice little girls you met at his house? Wouldn’t that be pleasanter 2’ Madge laughed. ‘Those little girls have a good dinner every day of their lives,’ said ghe ; ‘they don’t want any extra treat—not like poor folks do, any way. It would be waste of money to give them goodies. Their mothers and fathers can buy them for them. It would be quite a different kind of party to what I mean if we had them. Mine would be a lovely dinner-party, I am sure. Only, of course, it is only a fire-picture,’ ‘It is only a fire-picture now, Madge; it shall be a home-picture before long. You shall have your party, just as you have planned it. Your thought is a good one. The poor need entertaining more than the rich do. You and I will make them welcome, and Evelyn will help us.’ ‘O Grannie! you must be as rich as the Queen after all.’ ‘Not quite. However, Christmas comes but once a year, and I shall not be ruined if I spend some of my money in making others happy.’ ‘One person is happy already. I am, eried Madge. She covered Mrs Dell’s soft hands with kisses, ‘Evelyn must wear her prettiest frock, said she. ‘She will be just like a lovely picture for the visitors to look at.’ ‘And my little Madge ?’ ‘I shall have a bunch of holly in my sash. I love holly-berries, and scarlet geraniums, and peonies, and poppies, and all the cheerful flowers,’ G98 ‘rT SAW A GHOST.’ ‘If you love holly-berries, how would it do for you to go to the woods just before Christmas and cut some holly for yourself? Then you could make the rooms look as gay as you wish. Perhaps Evelyn Holmes would join you; and the gardener would look after both of you, and give you a hand, for holly takes some cutting.’ ‘You are the kindest, best Grannie in all the world, said Madge slowly. ‘When may wé go?’ ‘Let me think. Christmas Day comes on a Wednesday, does it not? Then Monday will be the day.’ ‘I hope it will be fine on Monday, cried Madge in an ecstasy ; ‘on that particular Monday, I mean.’ She repeated this sentiment over and over again before the twenty-third ; and when that day dawned bright and clear, with a light covering of snow lying pure and white on the ground, and icicles hanging long and clear from the eaves, it is doubtful whether the world held a happier child than little Madge Ridd. She hurried downstairs, and entered into conversa- tion with the gardener before breakfast, chatting so eagerly, and so clearly expecting to be answered, that he had to remind her that he could not work and talk at the same time. ‘I’m going, then, said Madge, jumping off the wheelbarrow she had appropriated as a throne of state, ‘because, you see, if you don’t get on with your work, you won't be able to go out with Evelyn and me.’ ‘Right you are, Missie!’ Simpson nodded to her as she retired. He was‘I SAW A GHOST’ 99 very much attached to Madge; she had won him by her affectionate words and ways. He was not in the least unwilling to leave his duties for a while to accompany her on her jaunt. Theydon Woods were as lovely as ever. ‘It is like a Christmas card!’ cried Madge. ‘Look at the frost, How it glitters!’ She darted off ere she finished speaking, for she caught sight of a bush laden with scarlet berries, at which she began to hack vigorously, till Simpson interfered, showing her how to cut more scientifi- cally, She and Evelyn managed very well under his directions ; their hands were a good deal pricked and scratched, but it did not occur to either of them to grumble at this part of the entertainment, They took the rough with the smooth, reckoning it all as included in the fun. ‘We are not wax babies,’ said Madge ; ‘are we, Evelyn? We shall soon get mended. Oh! I wish that it was Christmas Day already,’ ‘That would be too soon. There is ever so much more to be done first. I haven’t finished working my sachet for mother, and you haven't quite done the red woollen cuffs for Jonas.’ ‘No; I’ve got to finish them this evening, so I have,’ replied Madge. ‘There are only three more rows, though ; it won’t take very long.’ They turned to the holly-bushes once more. Soon they had cut as much as they required. They tied it together in large bundles with strong cord, and dragged it over the hard, white ground to the chaise, which stood outside, The gardener drove ; the girls squeezed100 ‘IT SAW A GHOST,’ up close to one another, so as to leave room for their booty. It was a merry drive. The crisp, cool air rang with the sound of glad young laughter. It attracted the attention of a woman who lurched along onthe pathway. She stared at.the chaise with its merry occupants, and they stared at her. Her dress was in tatters, her shawl ragged ; her bonnet had braved storm and rain ; the red flower that adorned it was almost bereft of colour. ‘She looks as though she had been drinking,’ said Simpson. ‘I am sure she is tipsy; but then she does not belong to-Whiteferry, said Evelyn, who was proud of her village. ‘I know all the Whiteferry women.’ Madge was silent; she had not a good view of the woman’s face, but something in the shabby, miserable figure reminded her of her mother. She felt sick and faint; her face was quite pale. ‘What is the matter?’ asked Evelyn. ‘Are you cold, dear ?’ ‘No, I ain’t cold.’ ‘What is the matter, then? You look so white.’ ‘I can’t bear to see people drunk,’ replied Madge shortly. Evelyn remembered that-she had seen her friend’s colour change in this way under similar circum- stances; she wondered at her sensitiveness, and was very sympathetic. The pressure of the gloved hand slipped into hers comforted Madge, but it did not set her mind at rest. She was a prey to sudden terrors: the ragged dress, the shabby shawl, the battered bonnet, had roused strange memories ; they were so like those her mother used to wear in the old, old‘I SAW A GHOST.’ 101 days, that now seemed so distant. Was it possible that she was discovered? The child trembled go that she could not hold herself together; her teeth chat- tered ; her startled eyes stared blankly. ‘I’m sure you are ill, said Simpson and Evelyn in a breath. ‘No, no!’ the child protested ; ‘it is only because— because the woman looked so dreadful.’ She buried her face in Evelyn’s fur cape, squeezing back the tears, A moment later she raised it, and was ready to smile at Simpson’s little joke, made on purpose to cheer her. She had succeeded in persuading herself that she was quite mistaken. She had, indeed, had similar alarms before, and they had all come to nothing. So would this. It was only her foolish fancy that had got into the way of playing her tiresome tricks. When she reached home she found that Mrs Dell was absent. Madge shrewdly suspected that she had gone to buy Christmas presents. She lunched alone, prepared her lessons for Miss Harrison next day, then drew an easy-chair to the window, and read a story by the waning light. Every now and then she looked up, expectant of Mrs Dell’s return. It grew duller every moment. Madge, who was tired from her morning’s exertions, fell into a pleasant doze. The parlour-maid entered with a view of lighting the gas, but retired without doing so, good-naturedly un- willing to disturb the little sleeper. Presently Madge awoke, feeling uneasy, she knew not why, as though troubled by some terrible presence. A figure stood outside—a dark, uncouth figure, that looked almost shapeless in the imperfect light; a face was presseda ee —_o — Se —_ — eter at ~_ — Te ae or a ates 2 EARNS WR ae . ’ cement “ aaNet eRe neem 4 eee aS ~ > ET TE TR a Regia 102 ‘ft SAW A GHOST,’ against the window pane, within a few inches of her own. Madge covered her eyes in a paroxysm of terror, only to uncover them again, fascinated by fear. The face, swollen and red, with fierce, cunning eyes, that had a mocking smile in their depths, was the face of her mother. It was no dream; it was a hor- rible, overwhelming reality. Madge rose to her feet, uttered a cry of terror, and fell on the ground a senseless heap. Yet her mother had not struck her, as had been her wont. It was only the sight of the dreaded face that had smitten the child—that and the odd, fluttering sensation at her heart. If fear could kill, little Madge Ridd would not have risen from the floor again. Mrs Dell found her thus, but could not ascertain the cause. ‘I saw a ghost, said Madge; ‘it squeezed its face against the window. Then she broke into a wild paroxysm of weeping, and it was all they could do to soothe her. When dinner came she could not eat. Mrs Dell, full of anxiety, coaxed her to swallow a little beef-tea. Then she went to bed, glad to escape, and lay there thinking. ‘Was it a ghost,’ she asked herself, ‘or was it her mother?’ She tried to recall all the horrible stories she had heard, and a good many of these had been repeated in Angel Court. But though she had lately got the idea into her head that her mother was dead, she was certain that she had never heard of a red-faced ghost. Then it was her mother, her living, breathing mother, full of drink and cruelty, ready to abuse, to strike, to ill-use her at a moment’s notice. Who would protect her? The answer was‘I SAW A GHOST,’ 108 breathed forth by the child herself; it found utter- ance in the one word, ‘ Grannie.’ She had deceived Mrs Dell; she had told her horrible falsehoods. When she confessed to them she would be for ever disgraced, perhaps never trusted again. But surely she would not be given up to be struck, and starved, and oppressed! Surely Grannie would hide her from her mother’s cruel eyes, if only in a cellar, where she would lie, stripped of her pretty clothes, if this must needs be. Madge was content to accept any punishment, ready to endure all terrors save one. Oh! the horror and pity of it, that a loving-hearted child should wring her hands and cry aloud: ‘Please, God, don’t let mother get me! Anything but that!’ She pushed the dark curls from her forehead with a quick, decisive gesture. She had taken her resolu- tion. She rose hurriedly, put on her slippers, and ran downstairs into the drawing-room, where Mrs Dell sat. She was neither knitting nor reading; she was too anxious to occupy herself in this way. The sight of Madge in her white night-dress, with wide, frightened eyes, caused her to start to her feet. For a moment she thought that the child was walking in her sleep. But it was no sleep-walker who threw herself at her feet, sobbing out, ‘O Grannie, Grannie darling, I have told so many lies to you!’ It was a frightened, conscience - stricken girl, with every faculty awake. ‘Lies, my darling?’ said Mrs Dell, resuming her seat and drawing the child to her. ‘When and how ? Tell me all about it.’: t : ‘ 104 ‘I SAW A GHOST,’ ‘I do know where I lived, and I have got a mother, gasped Madge. ‘I saw her ghost when you were out this afternoon; that is why I tumbled down. It must have been her ghost. Oh, don’t say it was Mother! It was the same ghost that I saw when I was with Evelyn and gardener,’ Mrs Dell listened attentively, though the child spoke so rapidly and incoherently that it was diffi- cult to follow her. There was a long pause; the clasp of the old lady’s arms was more tender and loving—that was all; there were no reproaches. She began to question the child with painstaking patience. By-and-by she pieced the truth together and understood. It would be hard to say which shocked her most. At one moment she was overwhelmed by the thought of the deception Madge had practised, of the many untruths she had told; the next found her weeping over the causes that had made that deception pos- sible. How great must have been the child’s fear of discovery, how terrible her dread, for her to be able to keep back the history of her past ! Mrs Dell's tears fell for sweet pity’s-sake. ‘Oh, my darling!’ she cried, ‘why did you not tell me ?’ Madge explained her reasons; they were not difficult to grasp. Over and over again they were repeated, embodied in the passionate entreaty : ‘Dont let Mother have me; not Mother nor her ghost neither. Hide me! Hide me! Hide me?’ Mrs Dell soothed Madge with gentle words and caresses. ‘I didn’t know it was so wrong to tell lies, not‘t SAW A GHOST,’ 105 till you and Miss Harrison told me, pleaded poor Madge; ‘then I promised you I wouldn’t tell any more. And I haven’t neither. Perhaps you won’t ever trust me again; but you may, you may indeed. I’m going to be true, like you and Miss Harrison want me to be. But I cant if I go back to Angel Court. I’m so frightened there, so very frightened.’ Even in the warm shelter of Mrs Dell’s motherly arms Madge Ridd trembled. ‘I’m frightened now,’ she sobbed out. ‘I—TI see the ghost-face in the fire. Say you forgive me! Say you will trust me again!’ Mrs Dell spoke to her gentle, loving words that touched the heart of the terrified child. ‘You will keep me, won't you, Grannie; you will let me live with you and grow like Hileen?’ Madge pleaded. Mrs Dell was full of fear for the future, but she was as unwilling to part with Madge as Madge was to part with her. She clasped the little trembling form to her and cried fervently: ‘It shall not be my fault if they take you from me, Madge !’ ‘You love me, Grannie ?’ ‘I love you dearly, darling.’ ‘Though I told such a dreadful falsehood ?’ ‘Yes, in spite of that.’ A smile of satisfaction illumined the pale young face, at which she gazed so tenderly. ‘I’m so awfully sleepy, said Madge. ‘Then bed is the best place for you.’ ‘I suppose so. But even as she spoke MadgeERO nenmeT eres - orn "SBN oo — = Cg SOF SCPE GG ener bg eigen 106 ‘1 SAW A GHOST.’ stifled a yawn. She was full of terror still; she dreaded to leave the warm, cheery, well-lit room. Mrs Dell divined her thoughts and fears. ‘I will watch by you until you sleep, said she; and she sat by the bedside, holding the child’s hand, until her eyes closed; and with the tears still hang- ing from her lashes, Madge forgot her troubles in slumber. Meanwhile the patient watcher thought of the future, and wondered how she should face its diffi- culties; for she did not think that Madge’s imagi- nation had played her false. She believed that Mrs Ridd had at last discovered the whereabouts of her child. It was not surprising. No stone had been left unturned, every effort had been made to discover Madge’s parentage; and now that endeavours had been crowned by success, what was to be done? Would it be possible to save the child, to keep her here in this happy haven, guarded from ill-treatment and cruel temptation? Or must she go back again to sin and sorrow? Mrs Dell pictured the face that had been pressed to the window, and the keen eyes that had identified her adopted grandchild, and shuddered. In her perplexity she saw no way of escape. She knelt down and prayed to God to show her one. Her faith was sure and simple, and when she kissed the sleeping child there was love and blessing in the touch of her lips; and little Madge, stirring in her sleep, whispered, ‘ Grannie !’CHAPTER 1X, A CHRISTMAS DINNER-PARTY. TAS hy ; se 'HRISTMAS Day broke bright and clear, and Ne. little Madge Ridd, having spent twenty- * four hours in peace and happiness since the KS twenty-third of December, began to wonder %2 whether she had, after all, only dreamed EN a bad dream. As for Mrs Dell—well, she had very little doubt of the fact. She thought that the sight of the intoxicated woman had recalled sad experiences to the child’s mind, and that, between sleeping and waking, she had seen an imaginary face staring in upon her. But though she appeared to be cheerful, she was very sad at heart; for she felt that, now that she knew that Madge had a parent living, and the place of her abode, she must let her know where her child was. But she could not make up her mind how to proceed; she decided to give herself a few days during which she could think the matter out. She would not act until Christmas Day was over. Meanwhile Madge, fresh from slumber, tossed the thick, dark hair from her forehead, and gazing at her with loving eyes, stretched out her arms and cried:* oo oo 2 RO ae REE RAT a, eee yoceneseiemivent teen = c cinta SET NRE 108 A CHRISTMAS DINNER-PARTY. ‘A Christmas kiss, Grannie darling. No, not one, —twenty, because of Christ’s birthday. I have one every day; this ought to be something extra special.’ ‘ Indeed, yes.’ Mrs Dell had no objection to make to the proposi- tion. She loved to feel the pressure of the clinging arms, and the touch of the soft, warm cheek resting against hers. Madge’s joy at greeting her was so great that she did not notice the parcel at her feet ; though when her eyes fell upon it she uttered a ery of delight. Here was a beautiful muff of gray fur, with a tippet to match, both presents from Mrs Dell; a brightly-bound story-book from Jane, a sparkling little brooch from cook, a bunch of flowers from | Simpson the gardener, and a box of sweets from the parlour-maid. It was all go strange, so wonder- ful, so unexpected, that Madge could not believe her eyes. ‘Tt isn’t another dream, is it, Grannie 2?’ she asked. ‘No, it can’t be! Dream-sweets wouldn’t taste like this, and you couldn’t put your hands into a dream- muff, or fasten a dream-tippet round your throat, or smell dream-flowers, or read out of a dream-book. It must be true. You couldn’t hug a dream-grand- mother either.’ ‘Or crumple her laces and set her cap awry.’ ‘No,’ said Madge reflectively, ‘of course not! So you are real, and I am real, and our Christmas dinner-party is real also. I think I had_ better get up.’ ‘You certainly had, or we shall never be in time for church,’A CHRISTMAS DINNER-PARTY. © 109 They walked there hand-in-hand, the old lady and the young child, and as they passed along the village street they exchanged greetings with many of their neighbours. Madge knew them nearly as well as Mrs Dell did, and took a keen interest in their sayings and doings. ‘Mrs Jennings has her son with her, said she; ‘and Tommy Toper has a new cap, did you see 2’ Mrs Dell saw a creat deal, but not so much as Madge saw, for old eyes cannot be expected to be quite so keen as young ones. ‘Grannie!’ whispered Madge when they were in a quiet lane together, ‘are you nearly as happy as when Hileen used to walk to church with you on Christmas Day ?’ ‘Yes, love, I am very, very happy.’ ‘You didn’t look happy a moment ago,’ ‘Iam sure I apologise, then, dear child. I had a sad thought, certainly ; but it has passed now.’ ‘Was it about the story I told ?’ ‘No, my darling; I am not going to think of that _ any more. Have you not promised me that it shall be your last ?’ ‘Yes, Grannie dear.’ ‘Then we will bury it, you and I, deep down; and we will never dig it up again, or speak of it, for my darling will remember that the truth must be spoken at any cost.’ ‘Yes,’ said Madge gently. But she did not know that the old lady at her side was fighting a battle with herself; that she longed to keep the secret of Madge’s parentage, lest in revealing it she should lose hold of the child; lestnininetinameniethehmeetemeesastioeen te te at ae a eee ERR ee P o ee ee sane nereginerinnner conn - 110 A CHRISTMAS DINNER-PARTY. she should be torn from her, her little Madge, whose smile was like sunshine as she looked up into her face, crying: ‘Listen to the bells, Grannie; listen to the dear old jangling bells!’ They rang out on the clear, frosty air, and Madge thought they brought her a sweet message, saying over and over again: ‘Grannie will keep you; don’t be afraid, Madge Ridd. Grannie loves you; she won't let you go back to Angel Court !’ She squeezed Mrs Dell’s hand tightly, and in this way they entered the church. ‘Well, I never!’ cried Madge. Every one looked at her, and Mrs Dell touched her to remind her that conversation was not allowable. It was quite an effort to restrain it. Madge was full of admiration; the sight was so new and beautiful. Holly, glisten- ing with cleanliness, holly fresh from the woods, that had needed no washing or wiping, was twined about the pillars; bouquets of scarlet geraniums stood on the communion table; laurels of every description had been gathered by generous hands; and_as the worshippers assembled, the beautiful organ-musie, that Madge loved, pealed forth triumphantly. The child could see the blind organist, with his sightless eyes upraised ; a gleam of sunshine illumined his pale face; he had a sprig of holly in his button- hole. She thought that his sister must have placed it there. Her glance wandered to the aged clergy- man, who had been vicar of St Mark’s Church for forty years. She smiled at him, and he looked at her kindly. She was sure that he was wishing her a merry Christmas ‘inside him,’ as she phrased it. By-and-by he did it by word of mouth. ThatA CHRISTMAS DINNER-PARTY. TTI was how he finished his sermon, which had been quite simple, all about the infant Christ: ‘I wish you a merry Christmas, dear friends, and a happy new year.’ ‘Thank you, said Madge under her breath. She thought it was a great pity that she might not speak aloud. ‘The same to you, she added, ‘and many of them !’ She was very fond of Mr Preston. His second wife and her children did not please her as well; she still thought them rather ‘ uppish,’ ‘Evelyn Holmes is a lady, she would say ; ‘she is quite different to the Preston girls, Evelyn Holmes has good manners.’ “Why do you think her manners so good ?’ asked Mrs Dell. ‘Well, she doesn’t give herself airs; that’s why,’ said Madge. ‘You don’t give yourself airs either, do you, Grannie ?’ ‘I hope not.’ ‘Of course you don’t; you couldn’, you know. Miss Harrison says real ladies never do,’ Mrs Dell was glad that the child had accepted this view, and that she took Evelyn for her model in manners. She could not have chosen a better one, wherever she had sought. The Christmas dinner-party was undoubtedly a great success. Hach guest brought to table a healthy appetite that had not been sated by luxu- rious living, and eyes that had never before gazed on a board so elegantly laid. There were glittering glass and polished silver covers, dainty crockery and lustrous plate. There also were flowers whose112 A CHRISTMAS DINNER-PARTY. fragrance filled the room, and the light fell rosily upon all, for the gas globes were of a delicate pink. Mrs Judd, Jonas, Polly, and Susie were all in their best clothes ; Mrs Stemp wore a wonderful cap with pink geraniums in front ; Sam, the crossing-sweeper, had polished his face till it shone like Mrs Dell’s spoons; Jane’s aunt looked after Blind Billy; the mangling-woman kept Jane’s aunt’s sons in order. Mrs Dell carved, with assistance from the cook, for she was not used to so large a family ; and Evelyn and Madge waited on the guests. Here experience told. Madge did not ask Jonas whether he liked breast of turkey or wing; she nudged Evelyn when she did so. | ‘He doesn’t care; he hasn’t ever tasted a turkey before, Eve,’ she whispered ; ‘only be sure and give him a lot! He won't eat bread either; poor folks don’t want to fill themselves up with bread when there ’s nice food to be had.’ ‘I say, Susie, Madge was whispering in the little girl’s ear now, ‘leave room for the pudding. You'll cry if you can’t eat any; I’m sure you will’ They lowered the gas when the pudding was expected, and as soon as it appeared the guests drummed the handles of their knives and forks on the table, and cried ‘Hurrah!’ as loud as they knew how; for this same pudding was all of a blaze, and the piece of holly in the middle in danger of catch- ing light. No one had ever tasted such a pudding before. Mrs Dell declared it to be the best cook had ever turned out. That it was the largest was undeniable. As cook, standing with her arms folded,A CHRISTMAS DINNER-PARTY. its smiled on the company, she acknowledged this fact. The lights were turned up, and the pudding soon lost its beautiful round form. Again Madge whispered a reminder to the younger ones. This time it was, ‘Remember the dessert ; leave room for the almonds and raisins, and the oranges,’ The guests tried to obey her, but did not find the process easy. Matters were made more simple when Mrs Dell got some little bags out of the sideboard drawer, filled them with what remained on the table, and gave one to each person. This so astonished Madge that she told Evelyn that she really believed Grannie must be as rich as the Queen after all. Dinner was succeeded by all sorts of games. It was when every one was tired and inclined to sit still that Evelyn Holmes persuaded Mrs Dell to play tothem. Again Madge was overjoyed ; there seemed to be nothing that her dear Grannie could not do. She played a piece that imitated a musical-box. When you closed your eyes you quite believed that it was one; and when the playing ceased, it was as though the little instrument had run down and wanted rewinding. It was not so; Grannie only required a little coaxing, and who could do it better than Madge? Then you had the pretty tinkling tune over again. After this came a Christmas carol in which all could join, young voices mingling with those that were cracked and old; and the room rang with ‘God rest you, merry gentlemen ; let nothing you dismay !’ to the satisfaction of every one except Kelpie, who howled so that Madge was obliged to put her arms round his neck and kiss him. The H: ; { ae ay qemecmanpeasemre 114 A CHRISTMAS DINNER-PARTY. tabby kitten could not allow much of this sort of thing; she was inclined to be jealous. So she perched herself on her little mistress’s shoulder, and refused to be dislodged. Thus the happy day ended; the guests went home full of pleasant excitement, and Madge and her kind protectress were once more alone. They sat together as was their wont, the child at the old lady’s feet. Madge’s happiness was entire; she had no secret to keep; nothing tied her tongue; she could speak quite openly of the dreary ast. She did so now, dropping every now and then into the old language that was part and parcel of the old life. She told of Christmas in Angel Court, _ of the scenes she had witnessed there ; she rehearsed once more the causes that had led to her flight. ‘One day I would like to go and see Mrs Bowser, she said, ‘and the policeman with the ginger whiskers. Will you take me, Grannie dear ?’ ‘Yes, love.’ ‘Do you promise ?’ ‘Yes, Madge, I promise that I will do so, if it is possible.’ Madge looked at the old lady, wondering why she said ‘if it is possible’ Were not all things possible to so rich a lady as Mrs Dell ? ‘Will it cost too much money ?’ she inquired some- what anxiously. ‘No, dear; the journey to Hitcham is not beyond my means.’ Mrs Dell was smiling now. Madge was reassured ; she could not realise the fear that filled the good lady’s heart, the dread that she might not be ableA CHRISTMAS DINNER-PARTY. 115 to keep the child she loved so dearly. She had for- gotten her past terror. The future lay before her, bright, joyful, and unclouded. ‘It has been a beautiful Christ's birthday,’ said she; ‘hasn’t it, Grannie dear? I expect God likes to see folks happy; and we were all happy to-day. Mrs Stemp said she had never had such a fine time before, and Blind Billy loved the music, O Grannie, how clever of you to think of giving him a concertina! I thought of all sorts of presents that wouldn’t do, did I not? And it is no use giving pictures to a person who can’t see, Mrs Stemp liked her shawl, and Sam is going to wear his warm comforter all the winter. Mrs Judd will be comfortable in the petticoat; she says it will keep the rheumatics off; and Jonas never had such pretty socks; and—oh! I can’t say any more; my tongue quite aches, I have talked such a lot. I used to talk a very little when I lived in London. But here, in Whiteferry, there seems to be so much to talk about. Doesn’t there? And everything is nice; - and—and I love you, Grannie. I want to hug you. Do you mind if your cap goes crooked 2’ No, Grannie did not mind. There were tears in her eyes as she gave herself up to the child’s em- braces, but they were tears of joy. The little figure conironting her, clad in red, with a sprig of holly stuck through the sash tied around her waist, eyes dancing, hair curling crisply, cheeks glowing, lips curved in the happiest of smiles, had grown inex- pressibly dear to her. ‘I am tired,’ said Madge, ‘and so sleepy that I should almost like to miss saying my prayers.’ Thiscausedibeniniiintindiiee tee teeta eaeashaneeene par ensemapgecagme 116 A CHRISTMAS DINNER-PARTY. was to the child a new accomplishment, and one which usually afforded her much pleasure. ‘But I won't miss them; it would be a shame to do that on Christ’s birthday.’ ‘Yes, indeed; let us kneel down together, Madge.’ They knelt side by side, the old lady and the little girl, and the firelight played on Mrs Dell’s silvery locks, and had a game of hide-and-go-seek in Madge’s rumpled black curls. It was the child’s habit to slip in appeals of her own. ‘Let me say a little bit of my own making up, she would plead. To- night her words were short and simple. ‘Please, dear God, let me stay with Grannie all my life long, she said, with her hands clasped ; and Mrs Dell’s voice, broken by emotion, cried, ‘ Amen.’ They went up the silent staircase hand-in-hand, and pausing on the landing, gazed through the window on the quiet scene without. The moon shone clearly; the stars twinkled; a cold light lay on lawn and gravel-path, and touched the dark- branched, leafless trees. ‘I wish, said Madge slowly, ‘that every one in Angel Court had a lovely bed to sleep in, like mine. I wish there were no poor folks in the world. It is so bad to be hungry, and the cold is so very, very cold when you haven't got enough clothes on and you can’t have a fire. Last Christmas Day we couldn’t, Mother and I.’ She spoke, with slowly filling eyes. Yet Mrs Dell did not bid her not to think of sad subjects. She dared not check the child’s keen sympathies. Instead she said very gently: ‘Would you not like to be able to give yourA CHRISTMAS DINNER-PARTY. 117 mother some money, so that she might have a fire ?’ ‘Yes, said Madge simply; ‘of course I would. Only it wouldn’t be a bit of use. She wouldn’t have a fire at home; she’d go to the “Crown and Anchor.” That is the public-house, you know.’ Mrs Dell looked shocked and puzzled. She saw terror creeping into the child’s eyes; she felt her shiver as she twined her arm about her. ‘You are quite safe, love, she said. ‘Do not tremble so; you are quite safe with Grannie.’ But in the silent watches of the night, when the child slept peacefully, the old lady lay awake, pray- ing that the Heavenly Father might hear the child’s prayer : ‘Please, dear God, let me stay with Grannie all my life long.’ It was such a simple one, but oh, how heartfelt, how full of pathos! Mrs Dell, in spite of her years and her wisdom, could not frame a better petition. ‘Let me keep the child!’ she cried. ‘Let me save her from misery and temptation. Let me try to make of her an honest, loving woman.’CHAPTER X. 5 A MIDNIGHT MEETING. Van’, AY after day the morning dawned peace- Hae fully; night after night the darkness fell on a quiet, undisturbed home. Mrs Dell’s letter to Madge’s mother was not acknow- ledged, no alarming news came by post, and so the good old year, that had turned the life of an unhappy, ill-treated child into a dream of bliss, drew to its close. In Whiteferry Christmas was kept royally ; hos- pitable doors were thrown open, and tired Londoners sought repose in peaceful country homes, and forgot for a while the busy town where folks struggled for a living. Parents greeted children who had been long absent; brother clasped hands with brother; the faces of loving sisters wore a welcoming smile. The music of happy laughter filled the air. Madge Ridd sometimes wondered whether heaven itself could be fairer than Whiteferry; and the waves dashed in upon the shore, and sang whatever song she pleased, or made a quaint accompaniment to the words within her heart. Thus did the glad hours pass untarnished, untilA MIDNIGHT MEETING. 119 New Year’s Eve. Some folks danced the old year out; others kept vigil at St Mark’s Church. Little Madge Ridd slept peacefully, and Grannie sat alone in the library, waiting to hear the bells ring. Cook had retired to rest; the others had gone to church ; but she had no sense of loneliness. She was think- ing deeply; she had allowed her knitting to fall on the ground; her hands lay idle in her lap; her lips moved as though in prayer; and her petition was none the less heartfelt because it was uttered in a room instead of a consecrated building. Suddenly there was a knock at the door—an odd, uncertain knock. A momentary fear crossed Mrs Dell’s mind, but she dismissed it at once, telling her- self that it must surely be the servants returning from church. Yet this hardly seemed probable, for the hour of twelve had not yet struck. ‘Surely I am not going deaf, said the old lady; ‘the sound cannot have escaped me.’ She opened the street door with hands that trembled, though she told herself over and over again that she had nothing to fear. Then she started back, awed by what she saw. A woman confronted her—a woman with dishevelled hair, shabby clothing, and a bonnet that hardly deserved the name. She stepped boldly into the hall, and spoke in a rough voice. ‘I want my child” said she. ‘What are you about, hiding my child away from me? What right had you to steal her ?’ ‘What is your name?’ asked Mrs Dell. ‘My name is Ridd—Margaret Ridd, the same name as my little gal’s.’120 A MIDNIGHT MEETING. ‘Then you should have had my letter. I wrote to you the day after Christmas Day, as soon as I knew.’ ‘A likely story that. My Madge must have told you where I lived long ago,’ ‘She did not. At first she was very ill, and could not,’ ‘Is she only just better 2’ ‘She has been well for a long while.’ ‘Why did she not speak out and: tell you as soon as she was herself again ?’ Mrs Dell looked at the woman long and steadily. They were in the library now, face to face, the one pale and gentle, the other florid and excited, ‘It is hard to have to tell you so, you who are her mother, but I must speak the truth, said she. ‘Madge was afraid of you—afraid of blows and harsh words. She is still afraid. It is terrible to see her shudder at the memory of Angel Court,’ The woman stared in a dull, uncomprehending way, then burst into a torrent of fierce invective. Language such as had never yet fallen on the ears of the refined lady reached them for the first time now. She did not try to stem it. She stood and listened, and as she did go, she prayed that she might find words to calm the speaker's fury. At last her opportunity came; she spoke very simply, very earnestly, and her listener caught a glimpse of her meaning. ‘You don’t think Angel Court is good enough for my gal?’ she said scornfully. ‘You're a grand lady, and you believes as poor folks are made of different stuff to you. You don’t think they loves their children,’A MIDNIGHT MEETING. J2t Mrs Dell was silent for a brief space. “Will you forgive me if I speak plainly?’ she asked. ‘Yes; L never did see no good in beating about the bush.’ ‘Then I wit tell you what I do believe. It is that the hearts of the poor are as warm as those of the rich; that they love their children quite as dearly. But it is not love that makes you neglect your child, starve her, ill-treat her, terrify her. It is drink, cruel drink, that masters you. Oh! it is true; I know it is true. You were not always as you are now. Once you were a happy, innocent girl ; once’ She had struck the right chord; the woman cowered before her, wrung her hands in agony, and burst into a torrent of tears. She had been born and bred in the country, and during the last week, as she wandered about Whiteferry, as she rambled in the lanes or stood at the edge of the sea, memory had played her strange tricks. She had had gleams of penitence, moments of bitter remorse, longings that the gin-shop could not satisfy. So she wept on in hopeless abandonment, and Mrs Dell stood over her with the gentlest of smiles upon her lips and the light of hope in her eyes. ‘Oh! it is never too late to mend,’ said she. ‘I will help you, if only you will let me. We will talk the matter over, you and I. You want to give up this wretched life of yours. You want to save your- self from yourself. You want to walk in a new path for the child’s sake. You cannot undo the past in a moment; you will have to struggle hard before132 A MIDNIGHT MEETING. you are a fit companion for Madge. In the mean- while leave her with me; let nie try to show her fe way to be good and true. I will not teach ker to despise you. Oh! do not take her back co Angel Court. Think of what you once were, vf what you are now. Do not drag the child down. If there is any love in your heart for her—and there is, I know there is—save your child.’ The woman lifted her face from between her hands and stared at the figure before her. To her unaccustomed eyes, Mrs Dell, in her soft, gray dress, with a fleecy white shawl about her shoulders, silvery hair, and delicately flushed cheeks, was something angelic, something more than human. Yet it was only human love that shone in her eyes, though human love, at its best, is surely almost divine. ‘T want to see the child. I won't speak to her or wake her,’ said Mrs Ridd; ‘but she is my own child, and I have a right to see her.’ ‘Yes, she is your child; God gave her to you,’ said Mrs Dell. ‘Come with me.’ They went upstairs together, and entered the bedroom on tiptoe. Mrs Dell turned up the gas. The miserable mother looked at the dainty rosebud paper on the walls, the pretty furniture, the delicate draperies, the picture of the Christ. Last of all, her glance fell upon the sleeping child in her white- curtained bed, and rested there. Madge lay in a deep slumber; her thick curly black hair had for background the whitest of pillows; her cheeks, once so pale, were rounded and rosy; one arm was thrown outside the cover-A MIDNIGHT MEETING. 123 let. Were those clean, well-kept hands, with a soft muslin frill round the wrist, really Madge’s? Mrs Ridd could hardly believe her eyes. Suddenly Madge shifted uneasily. The mother hid behind the curtain ;~Mrs Dell advanced. ‘Grannie,’ said Madge, embracing her, ‘it is strik- ing twelve. Listen,’ They kept silence while the bells rang out the old year. Mrs Ridd, though her presence was not sus- pected, could see the child’s radiant face. ‘It is the new year now, isn’t it, Grannie?’ asked Madge. ‘It is the new year surely, darling.’ ‘And it is going to be such a happy new year for you and me, Grannie.’ ‘I truly hope and believe that it is, Madge.’ ‘Please, I should like to say my prayer again. That will be just as good as though I were in church with cook and Jane.’ She folded her hands and knelt up in bed. ‘Dear God, bless Grannie and me and every one, and make Mother give up the drink,’ she whispered, ‘for Jesus Christ’s sake. Amen.’ livery syllable reached Mrs Ridd’s ears, A new expression was on her face as she listened ; she was forming a resolve. ‘What made you think of that prayer?’ said Mrs Dell. ‘I always say it, Grannie; only I say it to myself after the other prayer you taught me. Isn't it a right prayer ?’ ‘Yes, love, it is quite a right prayer. I would pray it always if I were you.’a cantante ee a a RIAN IE wey 124 A MIDNIGHT MEETING. Grannie kissed the child. Madge lay down again, and closed her eyes. The gas was turned low, and Mrs Ridd escaped unperceived, under cover of the darkness. ‘I wouldn’t have known her if I’d met her in the streets, said she when she and Mrs Dell were in the library again. ‘She ain’t the same child, not to look at, nor in the way she speaks, nor nothing. And she was a-praying for me; she didn’t know I was listening neither. God bless her!’ It was the first time for many years that the name of the Almighty had crossed her lips, except in blasphemy. ‘I kept my promise, she continued. ‘I didn’t speak to her; I ain’t a-going to speak to her, nor to let her see me neither, not till I’m a bit different to this.’ She looked at her own reflection in the glass over the mantelpiece. She saw her bloodshot eyes, her dirty, swollen face, her dishevelled hair. She despised herself as she had never despised herself before. She longed for health of mind and body ; she sighed for the happiness and innocence that had once been hers. And Mrs Dell spoke to her with the best words she could command, in a spirit of earnest love. She offered her, not sympathy alone, but all the help she needed; and when Mrs Ridd left, the gentle old lady kissed her as though she had been her friend. It was so true a kiss that the memory of it lingered with the woman, as something sacred, ennobling, purifying. As for Mrs Dell, there was hope in her heart. TheA MIDNIGHT MEETING. 125 difficulties were great, as she well knew. For a drunkard to reform is the hardest of all hard tasks. There are some who say it is well-nigh impossible ; but she was not one of these. ‘With God all things are possible,’ she said to herself, and she went on her way rejoicing. Very tenderly, very wisely, she told the child of her mother’s visit. Perhaps no one else could have made it clear to Madge, young as she was, that the greatest sinner needs our pity more than the greatest saint. It was the love in her heart for all God’s creatures that inspired Mrs Dell, and that love gave her faith and hope. ‘We must keep on praying, little Madge,’ said she ; ‘we must not despair.’ Some of the terror faded out of the child’s heart, and gave place to pity; while Mrs Dell reminded her- self that the mother had given her promise not to molest the child. In Angel Court Mrs Ridd’s promise did not count for much; the inhabitants would have laughed it to scorn. From Angel Court Mrs Ridd was, however, mercifully removed; she was in a Home where those who have yielded to the demon of drink live out of the sight of temptation. She had given her consent to being placed there, and was fighting her battle bravely. Ah! how little do some of us understand how hard it is to struggle against such an appetite as this; how the smell of drink rouses in some unfortu- nate persons such a craving as we can scarcely realise, however sympathetic we may be; how they would spend their last penny in the gin-palace for a brief excitement, followed by a terrible reaction! It 1s notSESE ee EE cre an eT ee eeetatmariieeneminemenenaee ee eee . >